Generations
by Rosywonder
Summary: A potentially devastating attack on world fertility leads Napoleon and Illya to the belief that an old adversary is at work again, this time with the intention of destroying the Kuryakin family permanently in the process.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The sky was a startling, intense blue, reminding Napoleon, as he squinted up at it, of the sapphire in his wife's engagement ring, of his partner's eyes when he was happy. Despite the fact that Spring in New York had barely begun, here new life was clearly in evidence, in the lushness of the wild flowers in the meadows, the deep greens of the cypresses on the hills and even in the sparkling sea which stretched out in front of him towards some distant horizon beyond the olive groves and the assortment of boats in the harbour.

'Look, over there'. He felt the hand of the agent by his side touch his shoulder, pointing across the harbour towards a small fishing boat approaching them. The Greek agent raised a small pair of binoculars to his eyes, a smile creasing his lips as the vessel appeared in view.

'Is he there?'

'Yes, Mr Solo. Though he looks a little worse for wear, I'd say. Take a look.'

There were two of them standing at the back of the boat's wheelhouse, the slighter of the two leaning back against the rail that swept round from it to form the support to the awning at the back of the craft. Napoleon took the binoculars and focused them on the smaller man as he moved into the shade of the canvas roof above him. He was wearing clothes that were indistinguishable from any other working man of this part of the world, but his hair and complexion marked him out from those around him. As he stepped over the rail he stumbled, attempting to pull himself up before sinking to the floor of the deck amongst the baskets and ropes.

Napoleon adjusted the lens to focus on his partner. He frowned at what he saw, the gauntness of the body; the evidence of struggle and hardship in his tattered, stained clothes. He handed the binoculars back to the man next to him and continued to watch the boat weave its way into the harbour.

'What happened? I thought it was just a one-off courier assignment.' Napoleon turned away from gazing at the boat to face the Greek agent.

'That's what he thought as well, but things didn't quite work out that way.'

He remembered the last time he had seen him, on an extremely cold January morning in New York, Illya staring at himself in the mirror of the little bathroom attached to their office.

'I look like I did when I left the navy.' Napoleon stared at the passport, then back at his partner's frowning image in the mirror. His hair had been cut in a rather brutal style which perfectly matched the picture pasted into the Russian passport in Napoleon's hand, at the same time making his partner look as young as the innocent looking boy who stared at them from the heavily stamped pages.

'I thought that was the idea, that you looked like this' he replied, trying to appear at least reasonably serious. Illya turned and retrieved the passport, shoving it into the inside pocket of a suit which Napoleon thought looked vaguely recognisable.

'And before you ask, yes, this is the so-called wedding suit I had in Gorky' Illya said. 'I donated it to Rudi on my return. He was very grateful.'

'I bet he was. So, comrade, I'll see you in, what, a week?' Illya nodded.

'No more than that.'

For once, Kuryakin's estimate proved to be entirely wrong. His appearance had worked well for him gaining entry to Albania, but what had seemed a simple delivery and retrieval of information had turned into a near catastrophe, trapping him in the political meltdown which had resulted from Albania's deteriorating relationship with the Soviet Union. Betrayal by the Albanian group he was supposed to be helping had resulted in weeks of detention at a filthy prison run by the infamous _Sigurimi, _the Albanian secret police,until he had escaped with some difficulty, spending some time on the run in the mountains before he was able to get away across the narrow stretch of water which separated Albania from the island of Corfu.

What had been a brilliant day was changing as rapidly as the little boat was speeding towards the harbour. Dark, forbidding clouds began to assemble in the increasingly pale sky, and then suddenly without warning, the rain began to cascade down in a drenching blanket, bouncing off the sea and ripping up the water in front of them. The Greek agent appeared to magic an umbrella from beneath his coat, as the boat finally docked, a couple of men emerging from the boathouse and leaping onto shore to secure the vessel against the quay.

Napoleon ducked from under the umbrella and lightly jumped aboard the boat, heading for the still recumbent form lying motionless on a makeshift bed of blankets at the boat's stern. He crouched down, and pulled back one of the blankets slightly, forcing himself not to gasp at the sight of his partner.

At first sight he looked paler than his ship-mates, but not much, Napoleon thought grimly. The filth of several weeks, if not months of not washing appeared to have become ingrained into his skin, which looked a dirty greyish-brown colour. His hair, and a longish, unkempt beard were in a similar state, and Napoleon flinched slightly at the obvious sight of a large number of head lice enjoying themselves on the dirty blond strands. As if aware of Napoleon's reaction, Illya's hand unconsciously scratched at his head, before dropping to his side again. His clothes were a jumbled collection of half torn garments barely covering the thin body lying in front of him.

Napoleon stood up and almost collided with one of the boatmen now stood at his side.

'I'm sorry he wouldn't let us touch him. He just told us to bring him here and his uncle would see to his needs' he said, staring at the pile of rags now posing as a human being laid out in front of them. Napoleon's gaze was momentarily diverted by the sound of a vehicle arriving at the quayside. A private ambulance drew to a halt at the end of the quay, two men emerging from the front and hastily opening the back doors before pulling out a low wheeled stretcher onto the pavement beside the vehicle. Napoleon stood back as the two other boatmen appeared from inside the cabin and gently carried Kuryakin towards the waiting ambulance.

They had strapped him in and were about to load the trolley into the back of the vehicle when his eyes suddenly opened.

'Ah, decided to wake up at last, comrade.' A slightly quizzical look passed fleetingly across the Russian's face, the colour of his eyes a quite vivid contrast to the soiled face surrounding them.

'Napoleon? I . . I . . what are you doing here?'

'I'll explain later, when you've been cleaned up and separated from all those little friends you seem to have collected on your head and other parts of your body' Napoleon replied, waving at the prostrate form on the stretcher and nodding to the men waiting patiently either side of him. Illya scratched his head again before calling rather more faintly,

'Napoleon!' Napoleon lent down, trying to keep his head from touching the seething mass on the pillow below him.

'Yes?'

'Don't let them . . . you know, my hair. . .'

xxxxxxxxx

They followed the ambulance as it wound its way round the narrow streets, past the huge walls of the fortress dominating the north part of the city, skirting the fish market, at this time of day deserted except for a few men clearing the slabbed tops which would be covered by early the next morning, until finally the ambulance gently ground to a halt outside an Italianate building in a quiet street on the edge of the town.

Napoleon was out of the car and standing by the back doors of the ambulance almost before they were opened, following the stretcher into the cool marble floored reception area of the clinic. Two nurses approached the desk, giving Napoleon equally cool stares as he showed the receptionist his UNCLE card.

The receptionist handed the taller nurse, whom Napoleon noticed had extremely long, shapely legs, a file with Illya's name clearly marked on it, together with a band which the smaller nurse immediately clamped round the Russian's arm. He looked up to see a doctor pulling back the sheet covering his partner and listening to his chest with a stethoscope, before indicating something to the nurse with his hand. They looked up as he came over, the tall nurse smiling at Napoleon as they all gazed at the figure on the stretcher.

'And you are . . .'

'Solo, Napoleon Solo. Mr Kuryakin's partner.' The doctor nodded and then wrote something in the file.

'From New York? I've heard your name mentioned. Well, your partner is in need of a little care and attention, but medically speaking, he's alright. He needs to regain the weight he's lost, but his heart and lungs are sound. I'd say he needs at least two or three weeks rest and a strict regime for regaining his body weight, then he might be allowed to work again.'

Napoleon smirked a little before glancing at Illya, who he was sure was well aware of the conversation taking place above him.

'I'll make sure he carries out your instructions to the letter, doctor' Napoleon said, smiling, suddenly aware of two hard blue eyes fixing him with a cold stare. He could see the nurses looking at his partner's hair, one of them pulling out a cap to cover the long greasy strands as they gabbled in indecipherable Greek about their patient.

'Oh, before you take him away, I know he'd want you to do anything you needed to do to ensure he's clean and comfortable, if you know what I mean' Napoleon said, avoiding the arctic shaft of blue now attempting to penetrate his skull. He bent down close to Illya's head, now confident he was at least protected by the cap from whatever was crawling about inside it.

'Now be a good boy, and I'll see you when you're three shades lighter and smelling more sweet' Napoleon murmured. Illya turned his head, his eyes now almost slit like, and opened his mouth, but not before the trolley was turned and pushed away at break neck speed, the long legs of the taller nurse demonstrating an admirable turn of speed on the marble corridor.

Outside the clinic, the sky had returned once more to its original stunning azure. Napoleon found the Greek UNCLE agent lounging against the car, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

'How is he?' he said, throwing the end into the gutter and flipping open the door of the car as Napoleon got in.

'Pretty good, considering. They just have to perform a clean-up operation and he needs to put on a bit of bulk.'

He stared out of the window as they sped along at the same breakneck speed which seemed customary throughout Greece, towards the hills overlooking the town.

'We thought you might prefer somewhere more private to stay' Dimitrios, the Greek agent, said, as he wrenched the car off the road and accelerated up through tranquil olive groves filed with asphodels nodding in the slight breeze that had taken hold after the rain had stopped. 'We'll send someone to keep house and look after you' he added, as he jerked the Mercedes to a halt in front of a house which had suddenly loomed into view as they roared up the narrow road, the olives giving way to a dense semi-wooded area of assorted oaks, walnuts and fig trees which successfully hid any signs of habitation from the road below.

Napoleon shoved the door of the car open, relieved to be out of it and reminding himself not to complain about Kuryakin's driving again. The house was imposing, its style matching the Venetian architecture of the town, with its curving, baroque pediment and round topped windows overlooking the bay beneath it.

'The German Army used it during the war as their headquarters', Dimitrios offered, and then it came into our possession in the fifties. It's proved useful from time to time, when agents need somewhere to rest up. We've had quite a few through here in need of, what do you say, 'R and R?'

While Dimitrios struggled with the rather ancient looking door, Napoleon strolled round the side of the house, noting with a little anxiety the outside steps leading to a very large verandah on the first floor which overlooked the bay beneath them. At the top of the steps it was relatively easy to climb over the low gate and onto its cool tiled floor where he waited for Dimitrios.

'Isn't this a little bit of a security risk?' he said, as, from the inside, the Greek threw open one of the French doors. Dimitrios shrugged, as Napoleon followed him into what was a very large airy room stretching the whole length of the house, dominated by a very large open fireplace at one end, round which were arranged some rather elegant French furniture, the sofa reminding him of the green one he had spent many happy hours on in Kuryakin's house in New York.

'It's no more a security risk than your buildings in New York with their fire escapes, don't you think?' Dimitrios said, throwing himself down on the sofa and then leaning forward to rummage in his briefcase for a rather fat folder which he threw onto the low table in front of him.

'Take a read of that while I find us something to drink' he said, before disappearing through the door and clattering down the stairs.

Napoleon picked up the folder, the UNCLE insignia on top, with the word '_γενεα_' underneath in Greek, followed by '_ιθακη_' in brackets following it.

'Kuryakin, where art thou?' Napoleon muttered, as he leafed through the report, holding up a couple of glass microscope slides which had been carefully affixed to the back of the folder.

He had been in his office trying to sort out his expenses claims with Connie when Waverly had summoned him, the word '_γενεα' _with the anglicised version 'Genea' written below it,on the front of a similar set of files to the one he was looking at now. Illya had been gone for three weeks already, and as he walked down the corridor, dark thoughts of bad news slipped into his mind as Waverly's office drew nearer. There had been a small feeling of relief when Waverly swung the table round towards him, tinged with certain regret that there was obviously no news of his absent partner.

'We seem to have a serious problem brewing' Waverly began, motioning towards the files with his pipe. Our people in Greece reported on it first, hence the rather unusual name, but since then, as you can see, there have been similar occurrences in other parts.' Napoleon fanned out the files, noting the places; Scotland, Japan, Greece, Russia. All were remote places; small islands, isolated communities. And in all of these places, a sudden, and permanent loss in the fertility of the male population.

'It appears, Mr Solo, that this lamentable state of affairs has followed an attack of . . .', Waverly thumbed through a file in front of him and drew out a sheet from amongst a thick pile of papers, '_Rubulavirus Paramyxoviridae_.'

Napoleon frowned. He could vividly imagine his partner sitting in the now vacant chair near him, wearing the usual superior expression on his face that he kept for these occasions, providing Napoleon with an instant translation from the world of science to the real world where Napoleon lived. But this time he wasn't there. Waverly looked up over his eyebrows at Napoleon, both of them knowing what the other was thinking, and feeling.

'I'm afraid we haven't the benefit of Mr Kuryakin's expertise today,' Waverly said as if Kuryakin had just stepped out for a short break. 'However, Dr Monkton has added this note for clarification.'

Napoleon got up and walked over to where Waverly was sitting, picking up the piece of paper and scanning it.

'Mumps?'

'Precisely, Mr Solo, but as far as I understand it, this is a type which our virologists have never seen before. Normally, as I'm sure you know, there is a slight risk of er, complications arising after contracting the virus, but I'm afraid in the case of these poor men, it appears the virus has been manipulated into causing severe complications of a permanent nature.'

Napoleon wandered over to the window, glancing down at the swarming figures on the street below.

'I presume these outbreaks are for some purpose then, sir' he said, feeling strangely uncomfortable at the thought of something so intangible as the microscopic pattern on the slides stacked on Waverly's desk affecting the lives and futures of people in communities remote from each other and from his own life in this city so full of life. Fabian, his precious little boy, leapt into his mind as he looked out again. At two, he was developing his own personality; gentle, enthusiastic, a little boy he never thought he would see or hold or wonder at. One more child than he had ever hoped he would have or deserved to give life to. The living proof that he loved, and was loved. He thought of Illya then, of the Russian surrounded with his polyglot family; the man who had once seemed so self-contained and essentially single as an agent and as a man.

'Well of course, Mr Solo, I would have thought that was obvious.' Waverly's voice shook him into awareness again, and he returned to his seat, putting the sheet of paper on top of one of the files in front of him. Waverly stared at him for a few moments, before leaning over and switching on the screen, which flickered into life behind his head. A large world map was displayed, with the affected communities marked. 'If this is a trial, there are implications of global proportions' Waverly continued. There would be widespread panic if world fertility were to be threatened.'

Napoleon frowned, staring at the map with its little red dots indicating the places where human tragedy had taken place.

'So do we wait until they make it clear what their demands are? And do we have any thoughts as to who 'they' are, even?' Waverly sniffed slightly and blinked at him from behind his glasses.

'I don't think so, Mr Solo. I have the feeling that there is more to this than just holding the world to ransom for monetary gain. This has all the marks of a desire to control as well as to destroy lives. I think we need to look for where this virus is being manufactured, but also to investigate how these people might be attempting to control future world fertility as well.'

'Do you think it's THRUSH, sir?' Napoleon said, steepling his fingers and leaning back into his chair. Waverly shrugged.

'It's possible, but I have a niggling thought in the back of my mind that that confounded Bolt woman is behind this. After all, she has, rather unfortunately, both the scientific background and the desire for world domination, making her a likely candidate, if only we had a shred of evidence linking her to it all.'

It was true, that since the winding up of the affair with the Blaus, Lee-Hua Bolt had decidedly dropped out of orbit, together with a very large amount of money that she had amassed from the siphoning off of the profits from the illegal sales of art treasures that her lover's husband had been involved in. There had been a widespread search for her in both Geneva, where she had lived for a while, and in Bermuda, where the money had been held in offshore accounts, but when the UNCLE agents arrived, of the woman and her money, there was no trace.

'When Mr Kuryakin returns,' Waverly continued, 'we should make further investigations in Bermuda, especially since he has some contacts there in the British High Commission. I still think that island holds some secrets about Miss Bolt that could shed light on just what her intentions are.'

'Have you heard from Mr Kuryakin, then?' Napoleon said, rather relieved that Waverly had brought up what had been in his mind almost continually through the meeting.

'No, but we both know he's a resourceful chap and he'll find a way of getting out of that place soon. It's a damned strange country you know; they were hand in glove with the Russians until the last few months. Now it seems they're throwing their lot in with the Chinese. Still, we have to get on; no doubt Mr Kuryakin will appear before too long, I'm sure.' Napoleon had nodded, not entirely comforted by Waverly's apparent confidence in his partner's abilities.

He gathered up the files and got out of his seat, but not before Waverly had continued, 'Oh, Mr Solo, perhaps in the meantime you could make some more efforts to find who is working for Miss Bolt in this organisation, if what that Blau woman said was true. From her past form, one would assume it's a woman, but we can't take that for granted.'

'Er, no sir. I'm working on the premise that it would be someone recruited recently, and not in Sections Two or Three, from the fact that she didn't know about me during the Blau affair. Um, Josefina had an idea about meeting socially with the newer female recruits and wives; she thought they might reveal something in a more informal setting rather than someone interrogating them.' Waverly looked up, a smile lighting up his craggy features.

'Sounds like a capital idea Mr Solo. I'm sure Mrs Solo is more than capable of organising that event, and of reporting her suspicions to you of course.'

Napoleon smiled weakly before exiting the room and heading for the legal department. He had no doubts at all that Josefina's plan, once approved would be executed with the efficiency she undertook most things, work or home-related. He could almost hear his partner's groans as he strolled down the corridor and pressed the button for the lift.

His thoughts were returned to the present by the clank of glass on metal as Dimitrios thumped down a silver tray with two glasses on it and a large bottle of Greek brandy. Metaxa didn't really compare with French brandy in Napoleon's estimation, but after the events of the day, he was happy to sink back on the sofa with the file and a large glass of the stuff.

'Have you any ideas about who might be responsible?' Dimitrios said, pointing at the file with his glass.

'Possibly, but we don't have any concrete evidence yet' Napoleon answered. 'There's additional information to what's in that file' the Greek agent added. 'I went back to Ithaka last week and had a look at the records they keep of shipping into the harbour there. You see what puzzles me, Napoleon, is how the outbreak began.'

Napoleon put down his glass on the small table by the sofa.

'Well, judging from the reports from the other affected areas, I'd say someone brought it in. Illya is the science expert in our partnership, but from what I understand, it can be passed to someone in contact with any contaminated object. Then it's just a matter of direct contact between infected persons, which in these cases, seems to have been remarkably quick.' He picked up the glass again and stood up, wandering through the open French windows onto the verandah, as Dimitrios helped himself to a second shot of brandy.

'I think you should take a look at the shipping records' he said, dragging his briefcase onto his lap and beginning to leaf through its contents. 'You see I think there's pretty clear evidence that someone from . . .'

The sound of the gun discharging in the room was huge in the stillness of the evening. Before Napoleon could move, a second man was upon him, raining down a series of kicks and blows to Napoleon's body before he was able to ram his assailant in the chest with his head, driving him backwards towards the open staircase at the end of the covered balcony. Suddenly there was a shout from the interior of the room, the second man bawling some command to his partner, who, without taking his eyes off Napoleon, lunged forward, punching the American hard in the face, before running headlong into the darkness of the room.

Napoleon, reeling from the blow, managed to drag himself up against the wall of the verandah, aware of one of his eyes beginning to close and a thick, salty stream of blood beginning to soak his shirt collar. He lurched forward slowly into the room, waiting momentarily for the world to right itself in his vision. The contents of Dimitrios' briefcase were scattered spectacularly through the room, amidst the debris of some of the smaller pieces of furniture, now reduced to fire tinder across the floor. The Greek UNCLE agent lay amongst it, spread-eagled by the side of the sofa, his head punctured by a neat red hole just above his eyebrows. Napoleon sank down, wiping his head with the back of his hand while he searched for his communicator with the remaining one.

'Open Channel G. This is Solo speaking. There's been an attack here; Dimitrios is dead. I think I could do with . . ' He felt the communicator slip from his hand and bounce harmlessly on the floor, but he was totally unaware of the time it took for his body to join it there.

xxxxxxxx

The room was pleasant for somewhere, anywhere connected with the world of medicine. Not that Napoleon could make the details out too concisely, seeing that his left eye was covered with a thick gauze bandage which seemed to be covering the upper part of his head as well. The sound of Kuryakin's voice coming from his blind side startled him. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight of his partner sitting on a comfortable looking armchair by his bedside.

'And I thought you were going to see to my every need for the next, what was it, 'two to three weeks'?' Napoleon winced slightly at the expression on Illya's face, a combination of annoyance and devilment he knew very well.

'Er well, I was, but I hadn't quite reckoned on a little house call two not so friendly Greeks decided to make,' Napoleon answered, turning his head back. 'You heard then, what happened?'

Illya nodded. Napoleon began to wonder just how long he'd been in the clinic. The Russian looked quite good, his face more filled out, and considerably cleaner looking than when Napoleon had last looked at it. Illya pulled some glasses he had appeared to come by out of his dressing gown pocket and waved a familiar looking file in front of Napoleon's face.

'I see you've got hold of that then' Napoleon said. 'Surprised you can see it through all that hair.' Illya's lips twitched momentarily.

'Despite the fact that you appear to have given permission to the nursing staff to do with me as they will, I managed to persuade Persephone to try other methods of controlling my unwelcome visitors' he replied, shaking his head slightly. Unfortunately, I had to agree to a more drastic approach in other areas.'

'I hope _Persephone_ approved of your tattoo, comrade. It must be perfectly displayed now.'

Napoleon closed his remaining eye and sank back into the pillows. A warm feeling suffused him, despite the injuries. He had missed their constant bantering over the last few months; its return signalled a sure continuation of the partnership, despite injury, head lice or any other affliction that could be thrown at them.

'OK, so you've read the report presumably. Spiros had some information that would have been very valuable; so valuable that it was worth an attack like that for.' Illya walked round the bed and sat companionably on Napoleon's right side, laying the folder on top of him.

'Yes, I'm sorry about him, he was a good man. They, whoever 'they' are, were anxious to prevent us finding out where they came from, it seems. While you were resting, Napoleon, I talked to Mr Waverly. He thought, until yesterday, that whatever the evidence was from Ithaka, it was the only link to whoever did this thing.

'So there's evidence from somewhere else?'. Illya smiled and nodded.

'Luckily there is. Apparently the people assigned to the remote town in Siberia weren't quite so good at covering their tracks. Or, of course, it was down to Soviet efficiency' he said, tilting his chin and smiling. Napoleon groaned, before opening his eye and staring at his partner.

'Apparently, they're sending someone with the information' Illya continued. 'No doubt it will be some_ apparachnik_ from the KGB, but at least we'll know then whether it's our friend or not behind all this.'

Illya had listened patiently as Waverly brought him up to date with the mission, but despite the lack of evidence, in his heart he was convinced of Lee-Hua Bolt's involvement. Waverly had not referred to his absence, nor even enquired about his health, Illya knowing full well that this information had already been conveyed. But after the briefing, Waverly had paused before saying,

'I think there are several people here who'd like to speak to you.' Illya's whole attention had been so given over to the matter in hand that for a few moments he couldn't think who Waverly was referring to, until, after a brief pause, he heard a piping voice start up,

'_Papa, ici Tasiya!_'

It was hard to stop tears from starting in his eyes as the little girl babbled into the phone. He could feel the nurse who had patiently washed his filthy body and meticulously combed the lice from his hair, put her hand on his shoulder as he talked to his little girl, followed by Pascale and Pablo. Even the twins joined in, shouting a strange garbled message down the phone involving the words 'papa' and what sounded like 'getty', until at last another, longed for voice took over.

'_Ça va cherie, tu vas bien_?'

Something caught in Illya's throat, and rather hoarsely he poured out everything he had held in through the long weeks, not caring if anyone was there or understood what he was saying. After a while they began to talk of more ordinary things, of the children, of what they would do on his return.

'What did the twins say?' he asked eventually.

'They're following in the Kuryakin tradition' Therese said. 'They're trying to tell you what they had to eat for dinner today.'

'Spaghetti?'.

'_Bien sûr_.'

xxxxxxx

The car was outside the clinic, Napoleon's case inside, together with a smaller bag which held all the possessions Illya had managed to amass in the three weeks he had spent there. Napoleon walked out into the sunshine, wondering what was keeping his partner. He looked at his watch, and then glanced back at the open doors of the clinic behind him.

Illya had been a little mysterious about their journey back to New York for some reason then unknown to him, feigning tiredness and returning to his room early, but later, Napoleon had managed to arm-wrestle the clerk on duty into giving him a record of Kuryakin's phone calls. A fairly short call to UNCLE HQ in New York was followed by a much longer one to Lübeck in Germany. Solo had frowned at the second one, before putting in a call of his own to the UNCLE office in West Berlin.

He squinted as his partner came out, the Greek nurse with the long legs on his arm. From somewhere or someone Napoleon could only guess at, he had managed to procure a reasonably smart suit and shoes, which now contrasted rather oddly with his very clean, but shaggy hair. Before he turned towards the car, she hugged him, whispering something in his ear, and then thrusting a little card into his hand before she ran up the stairs to the clinic and disappeared into its dark interior.

'What was all that about?' Napoleon said as the car screeched away from the pavement, 'giving you the address of the best Greek restaurant in New York?' Illya stared flatly at him, before leaning forward and giving the card to the driver, addressing him in what seemed to Napoleon rather fluent Greek.

'We spent a lot of time together, so I occupied my time improving my language skills' he said.

'Ah, that's what they call it nowadays' Napoleon murmured. 'And the card?' The car came to a sudden halt outside a row of shops.

'It appears that everyone I know has a barber for a relative' Illya replied, opening the car door. 'I won't be long.'

Napoleon watched him walk along the road, hesitating outside an open door to a shop where several men seemed to be loitering, smoking and talking. They stared at him for a few seconds, before returning to their previous conversation. Napoleon could only imagine what they might have been saying.

'There's a bar opposite; you could wait there' the agent driving the car said. 'Looking at him, it may be a while.' Napoleon raised his eyebrows, and got out of the car.

He was finishing his coffee when Kuryakin appeared, ordering another expresso and then sliding into the seat next to Napoleon.

'Am I now acceptable in decent company?' he said, doing his usual thing of feeling inside his shirt collar for imaginary hairs.

'Very acceptable' Napoleon replied, staring at his partner's hair, the long mane now shorn to a length he knew his wife would approve of and Kuryakin's wife would be horrified by. 'In fact I'm mildly amazed you submitted this easily.' Illya looked a little rueful as the coffee arrived and he began to stir several spoons of sugar into the cup.

'You know where I'm going, don't you?' he said, his expression gradually becoming darker as he sipped the coffee.

'And you were going to tell me, what, when we reached the airport?'

Illya flinched slightly, the neat haircut making him look suddenly serious and purposeful.

'It's difficult' he said, 'it's one of the most difficult decisions I've ever had to make, Napoleon, and I still don't know if I'm doing the right thing.'

Sabi's father had contacted him by letter initially, when he was still recovering from the near fatal gunshot wound inflicted by the Nazi war criminal Konstantin Blau, the end of a mission which had resulted in Sabi Klose's death. Illya knew, as soon as he had recovered from the shock of Sabi's loss, that a meeting to decide the future of her daughter Katya would become inevitable. His daughter, the little girl that he had promised he would care for in the event of her mother's death. He remembered signing the will, pushing the very idea that it would ever be needed to the back of his mind. Now it was necessary to confront reality and to take responsibility for the child he had so unwillingly created.

When Sabi returned to Germany, Katya had gone too, and Illya had wondered then just how he would maintain the link that both Sabi and his wife wanted him to. He had read the letter to Therese, his facility with German making it easier for them to understand the implications contained in its pages. Herr Klose had not been specific, but Illya and Therese sensed that something was being planned, something they were not to be involved in.

'You'll have to go when you get back from wherever you're going next' she had said, when he was preparing to go to Albania. 'Perhaps you can go on the way back even, if it's in Europe.'

She hadn't known where he was going, but though she proved uncannily right about the part of the world, neither of them had anticipated how long it would be before he could resolve the problem which had remained with him through some very dark days as a prisoner in Albania.

'Tess will accept what I decide, I know that' Illya said, glancing at Napoleon over the rim of his coffee cup, 'but I can't help the feeling that I may be betraying Sabi's trust in me if I get this wrong.'

'You think they want to keep her?' Napoleon said quietly, images of Sabi, in life and death, flooding into his mind. 'Have you taken legal advice? You know you could always ask . . '

'I've asked her. Your wife was very helpful, though a little blunt in her approach, as ever.' Illya smiled, but Napoleon could tell from long experience that he was troubled by what lay ahead.

'Well I'm sure she told you not to rush into anything' Napoleon added. Illya sighed a little, then picked up both cups and returned them to the bar.

'On days like these, I just want to go home and curl up with my favourite . . '

'Book?, Music?, Scientific Journal?' Napoleon smirked slightly and walked slowly along the street behind the slim figure of his partner. Illya climbed into the car and lay back against the seat, his eyes closed.

'My girl, Napoleon. My favourite girl.'

CHAPTER TWO

They all stood in line outside the shoe shop, the children's noses pressed to the glass in a way that made Therese smile at their enthusiasm.

'I can't believe you _all_ need shoes at the same time', she complained, glancing down at the row of faces now looking at her, the twins trying to break free of their brother and sister's grasp.

'I could manage for a little while longer, mama' Pascale said, Valentin managing to get free and whack his brother over the head with a toy giraffe he had insisted on bringing.

'_Valya, arrête-toi!_ No, you need them. I don't want people thinking we can't afford shoes for our children, do I? Just don't show the bill to Papa, alright?'

The shop was nearby, the French patisserie next door the useful bribe for good behaviour. Therese pushed the hair back from her face and grabbed Valentin, instantly colliding with someone standing just behind them.

She was of medium height, her blond hair hidden behind a red silk head scarf tied under her chin, a pair of exclusive looking sunglasses hiding her eyes. Her raincoat looked expensive, her handbag carefully chosen to complement the casual elegance of the outfit. Therese glanced at herself in the reflection of the shop window and felt drab and undesirable compared to this woman. Her companion, taller than his partner, was as dark as she was fair. Therese thought she noted a faint hint of something Asian about his skin, but it was difficult to guess his ethnic origin beneath the obviously expensive western clothes and the dark glasses seemingly cemented to his face.

'Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't see you' she stammered, trying to keep both Tasiya and Valentin under control as they stood, the children beginning to swarm around her like a small flock of sheep.

'It's my fault' the woman replied rather kindly, her accent sounding American, but rather neutral, as if she had lived away for some time. She gazed downwards, suddenly removing her sunglasses and smiling at Anastasiya, who returned her smile with a penetrating glare.

'Are these all yours?' The man, apparently detached from the conversation, suddenly spoke, removing his glasses briefly as he regarded each of the people standing in front of him. Therese looked at him, a strange feeling making her slightly dizzy, as if she had seen those eyes before, somewhere bad. She shook her head before replying,

'Yes. I don't usually take them here all together, but needs must.'

'And you don't have an . . . _au pair_ to assist you?' the woman said, her eyes widening.

'No, no _au pair_, just me.'

The other woman smiled, before reaffixing her sunglasses, grasping her partner's arm and walking off down the street.

Pascale stared at the retreating figure, her expression a perfect replica of her father's.

'The lady was nice, but I don't think her husband likes children, mama; he has that look' she said. Therese noticed how Pablo had turned away and was staring fixedly at the window again.

'Are you alright?' she said quietly, letting go of Tasiya and touching his arm. He stared at her, fear written across his features.

'I . . . I, when he took off his glasses, it was as if , well he reminded me of someone, someone from a long time ago, but I can't remember who.' Therese frowned. She had felt the same, transient feeling of some bad memory as she looked into the man's eyes.

'Don't worry, they've gone now' she said, smiling encouragingly at him, the boy's face responding to her as Valentin, with an almighty shove of the door, stormed in ahead of them. As she shepherded them in, Therese glanced down the street. The couple had vanished, only the disquieting feeling they had created left behind.

xxxxxxxxx

The train came to a smooth halt in the station, the steam exhaling from amongst the undercarriages as Illya jumped down and walked up the platform, his face set. He began to feel a weariness seeping into him, the decision he had to make endlessly revolving in his mind since they had left Greece.

Napoleon had disappeared into a shop at Bonn airport, returning with a large carrier bag filled with an assortment of clothes Illya frowned at, but eventually conceded to needing, his mind not on the practicalities of his trip.

'Just see them as an early birthday present' Napoleon said, pulling out a dark raincoat.

'Very early. My birthday's in November.' Napoleon shrugged and smiled, the sudden announcement of the plane to New York changing his expression.

'OK, ring me when you're done. I don't want any more mysterious disappearances for several months.' Napoleon regarded his partner. He looked tired, his appearance more wasted than had appeared when they left Corfu. For a moment he wondered whether he should offer to go with him, but on reflection, he knew this was one journey Kuryakin had to make alone.

'I'm sure you've got plenty to be going on with' Illya said, grabbing the carrier bag. 'Let's see, a tea-party for the ladies . . .'

Napoleon had explained Jo's plan to him on the flight from Athens, the Russian sighing audibly as he talked. He had not spoken for a while, before he said, staring out of the window, 'I suppose if Waverly's agreed to it, he thinks Miss Bolt is as involved as I do.'

'Ring me and I'll let you know if we have any obvious suspects' Napoleon said. Illya turned round and gave his partner a long, penetrating look.

'And one more thing, Napoleon. Don't involve Therese. Please.'

He had taken an internal flight to Hamburg, the short train journey to Lübeck bringing him into the heart of the old Baltic city. Sabi had talked a little of her home town, its architecture, the old town surrounded by the great river, the port and beach at Travemunde where her sister lived. But apart from her sister Angela, she spoke rarely of her family and had visited them seldom.

A sharp wind coming in from the sea whipped at his coat as he strode away from the station, his attention on the address written on a small card in his hand. The _Alstadt _with its assortment of brick buildings, church steeples and the two remaining town gates proclaimed its history as a proud city and centre of a great mediaeval trading empire. Illya couldn't help but think that Tess would enjoy photographing this place as he walked quickly up the narrow streets towards the house he was looking for.

They were waiting for his knock, Sabi's father opening the door almost immediately, his wife lurking in the dark room one side of the corridor. He could see more serious, sombre versions of her in their faces as they motioned him to sit down in the rather plain sitting room, with its dark, traditional furniture and tiled fireplace in the corner. Illya glanced round the room, conscious of photographs, some older looking, of a younger, happier group, Sabi amongst them, her long blonde plaits reminding him of a fairer version of his own daughter Pascale. There were other, more recent photos of whom Illya guessed was her sister Angela with a man at her side, but pictures of Sabi and Katya were noticeably absent from the room.

'Thank you for coming, Herr Kuryakin, although we had hoped for an earlier settlement of this situation', Sabi's father began, his wife remaining silent at his side.

'I'm sorry, I was unable to come before now' Illya replied, hoping that it wouldn't sound as if he was making an excuse. Herr Klose sniffed slightly and glanced at his wife, who got up and left the room, the jangling of china indicating her role in the discussions.

'I think we should get to the point' Klose began again, opening a wallet containing what looked like official looking papers. There was another knock as he spoke; he stood up immediately and shut the door, his wife dealing with whoever might be calling.

'We wish you to sign these papers' he said, pushing them towards Illya. You will give us legal guardianship of the child Katerina and surrender all rights over her.' Illya frowned at his tone and its finality.

'I can understand why you would like to keep Katya with you' he began, but I am her father, and as such, I'm sure you appreciate that I have responsibilities towards her, and also towards Sabi.'

Klose stood up and glared at the man opposite. 'It is a pity, Herr Kuryakin, that you were not more responsible when you fathered this child with my daughter. I understand that you are married, but that didn't appear to prevent you from conducting this little arrangement with Sabina, no doubt to compensate her for the loss of her so called female lover.'

Illya remained sitting, refusing to be drawn by the man's comments.

'That is not true' he said quietly. I'm afraid I can't discuss with you the circumstances of Katya's birth, except to say that it wasn't as you have suggested. But whatever you think of your daughter or me, my main concern is that Katya should have a proper family life, where she is loved and the memory of her mother is respected.' He looked up impassively as Herr Klose opened the door and called someone.

A woman entered the room with a tray on which were arranged a cake, two cups and a large coffee pot, murmuring something to Klose as she came in.

'Perhaps after speaking to Angela you may be able to come to a decision' he said, as he disappeared out of the room. As Illya watched, she poured out the coffee and cut him a slice of cake. He began to drink, looking at her as she sipped her coffee.

'She has your eyes, and your expression' she said suddenly, putting down her cup. Illya stopped drinking and looked at her.

'Herr Kuryakin' she continued, 'please forgive my father his mediaeval attitudes and demeanour. He loved Sabi as much as we all did, but he couldn't come to terms with her life as an UNCLE agent and also, well . .'

'Her partner?' Illya said.

'Exactly. In the end, it drove them apart and when she told us about Katya, you can imagine . . .'

Illya smiled. 'I can't explain about Katya's beginnings, but I can say that she is just as important to me as my other children, and that Sabi was one of my closest friends. Angela's face fell slightly, and she stood up and stared out of the window.

'How many children do you have Herr Kuryakin?

'Er, with Katya, six. Why?' She turned round and he could see that she had started to cry.

'Karl and I, we can't have children. When Katya came to stay, I tried not to become attached, but I couldn't help it. Karl told me we shouldn't hope for too much, but Father said we had the right to keep her. I know you love her, Herr Kuryakin, but for us, this is our only chance to have a little of what you have so much of.'

He came over and held her gently for a while.

'Call me Illya' he said quietly. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, before taking his hand and sitting on the sofa with him.

'Illya, whatever it says in that document, I promise that if, if she stays with us, I will bring her up to know who her parents were, and to know that they loved her.' Illya pulled out his wallet and retrieved a very battered photograph from inside.

'I lost most of my things on a mission before I came here' he said, but I managed to hold onto this.' It was taken in the autumn before last in New York; he and Therese under the shade of large tree, the children gathered round them, including Katya. 'Sabi took this photo' he said simply. They're all bigger now of course.' Angela put her finger onto each child, then looked at Illya.

'They're all beautiful' she said. He smoothed it out and handed it to her.

'If she asks, show her' he said.

He signed the forms, shaking hands formerly with Herr Klose as he left the house. As the door closed, he heard the sound of a child's voice coming from somewhere at the back. Illya turned and walked along the side of the house towards the garden behind, where a large oak tree gave him the necessary leverage to scramble up the side of the wall until he was sitting half perched on the tree, with a perfect view of the garden.

Katya was sitting on a bench, a row of dolls laid out companionably next to her, while she carefully dressed the largest one. He heard a voice calling, before a tallish man emerged from the house and came towards her. She held out her arms to him until he swung her up into the air, the little girl laughing and begging for more.

'I love you papa' she said breathlessly, before he hugged her close, their faces joined in a mutual embrace. Illya soundlessly returned to the ground, and walked slowly away.

xxxxxxxx

CHAPTER THREE

The party was largely assembled when Napoleon arrived, his taxi, after taking a supposedly quick detour to avoid traffic becoming stuck firmly behind a large road works vehicle along Park Avenue. Finally he had leapt out of the vehicle and walked the last part, ending up in front of an imposing modern hotel on 58th and 5th. He recognised one of the girls from Section Three in the hotel foyer, obviously placed to shepherd the guests to the correct room, but this time without the usual yellow triangles.

'Oh hi, Mr Solo' she murmured, 'we were wondering where you'd got to.' He smiled, motioning his hand to allow her to lead him on.

'Everything going well?' Napoleon asked as they rode up in the lift.

'Uh-huh. Your wife is running the show, remember?' He smiled knowingly.

Normally, this kind of occasion was the sort of thing where he felt totally at ease. Jo, unlike a lot of other women found his harmless flirting mildly amusing, particularly when there was an ulterior purpose to it all. But today he sensed a more sinister atmosphere in the room as soon as he stepped into it. If they were right, at least one woman in this room was directly connected to Lee Hua Bolt and intent on evil towards her fellow employees.

'See you later, Dana' he said as she opened a pair of large shiny doors near the lift foyer. She smiled at him and disappeared down the stairs as he wandered into the first of two rooms arranged for the occasion. The first, and smaller of the two was set out with a copious display of afternoon refreshments, inducing a memory of Kuryakin stuffing a considerable number of similarly delicious looking petits fours into his mouth at the last UNCLE social occasion they'd been to, with that annoyingly smug 'and I never put on weight either' expression of his which he frequently adopted whilst looking directly at Napoleon's midriff. A number of women were standing staring at the food; Napoleon could only guess what they were thinking and whether their calculation of the calories for each item was correct.

Josefina was standing towards the middle of the second, larger room, a cup of the milkless tea she liked in her hand. She darted a rather arch look in his direction, before smiling and heading towards him. A rather plump woman in amazing winged spectacles thrust a cup of tea into his hand as Jo reached him, her eyes glinting through the glasses in a rather beady manner.

'Ah there you are, darling' Jo said without a hint of annoyance. 'Napoleon, this is Pearl, our new head of the typing pool.'

'One of my favourite departments' Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows and smiling over the top of Pearl at his wife.

'Yes, Pearl has been telling me how often you manage to visit' Jo said, 'no doubt for reasons only you or your partner understands.' Pearl looked at them then nodded her head.

'Oh yes, we get the other one down there too' she squeaked. 'The girls get very silly after he's gone; I think it's all that blond hair he wears so long. I thought there were regulations about that sort of thing.'

'There are' Napoleon said, trying not to smirk. 'It's just that he prefers to see how long it takes for anyone to remind him about them.' Pearl glared at him before continuing, rather huffily, 'well, it's very un-American I think.' She walked off, allowing Napoleon to put his arm round his wife's waist and draw her nearer for a few moments.

'She may be a little scary, but I don't think she's what you're looking for' Jo said into his ear. 'You'll have to warn Goldilocks though, just in case she comes at him with the office scissors.'

Napoleon grinned, and then glanced back into the other room.

'Well, from the look of him when I last saw him, he won't need her assistance for a few weeks yet. I'll just have a little wander round and see if there are any more likely contenders.'

'Well don't forget that we need to be out of here before five as we have the small matter of the St Clare's School Concert to get through. You promised, remember?' Napoleon cringed slightly but when his sister in law was doing the asking, he always found it so hard to say no.

There seemed to be a great deal of networking going on between the women as he advanced towards them. He could see that names and numbers were being taken down into little notebooks, the younger girls obviously planning different things than the more matronly women in the group. He recognised a few faces, wives and fiancées of newly-recruited men in other sections that he met on occasions, and a couple of girls who'd not been long back from Survival school for good measure, although he was privately convinced that the mole, whoever she was, didn't come from Section Two.

'Oh hello, it's Mr Solo, isn't it?' He spun round to come face to face with a blond, her eyes a quite arresting honey brown colour. She was standing with another woman, equally tall, equally good looking, but in a different way that Solo couldn't quite put his finger on.

'I don't suppose you remember me; I'm Yvonne, Yvonne Shumway.' Napoleon frowned, and then remembered.

'Medical. You're in Medical. _Not_ one of my favourite departments, I'm sorry to say, but perhaps you can change my attitude next time I'm round.' She smiled rather prettily, but Napoleon was aware all the time of the other woman.

'And your friend?' Yvonne seemed confused for a moment until Napoleon tilted his head in the other woman's direction. She gave a slight start, a momentary expression of what Napoleon could only describe as fear drifting across her face.

'Miranda Jones. You seem to have quite a legendary status in UNCLE, Mr Solo.'

Napoleon smiled, still wondering what it was about this woman that he had found so difficult to describe. Although she was very American looking in the way she dressed and behaved, there was something vaguely foreign about her which he couldn't define. As if she had read his mind, she continued, 'My great-grandfather was from the Far East, but from then on, we've been pure American, from Richmond, Virginia.'

'Well that's a State with a lot of history, Miss Jones' Napoleon replied, taking her hand, and feeling her grip it with the kind of grasp which usually meant business if it belonged to a man.

'And you work in . . .?'

'Pharmacy' Yvonne chipped in, 'you see we're kind of linked, Mr Solo.' It was extremely fleeting, but Napoleon was quick enough to notice that Miranda had not liked the last sentence.

'Pharmacy, eh. So, you dole out all those nice pills my partner hides in his pillowcase' Napoleon said smoothly, appearing not to notice. Miranda Jones stared rather wearingly at him before saying,

'Pharmacology is a little more complex than doling out pills as you so charmingly put it, Mr Solo. And your partner should take his meds, and then perhaps he would get better more quickly.'

She looked away immediately, her gaze sweeping the room as if she were looking for someone in particular. Napoleon nodded to them and drew away, wandering from each little group to another, but despite an occasional suspicion, the other women seemed suddenly less than interesting to him than the two he had just been speaking to.

He sat down on a convenient club chair after his rounds had been done, waiting for Josefina to finish going through possible future social events with the other women present. Yvonne Shumway was standing next to her, smiling and nodding at something Josefina had obviously suggested, before walking away to join another woman he recognised as a dental assistant. Finally, as they began to drift out of the room, he got up and went over to his wife.

'What did she want?' he murmured; a rather forced smile lingering on his lips for as long as it took several women to pass them by.

'She overheard me talking about Tessy and the concert to Julie Moore. Apparently she's a Catholic and looking for a friendly parish. I invited her along. Why? You don't think she's the one do you? She seems so, well, _pure_.'

'No, probably not' he replied, 'although her friend in the cream dress is worth a little further investigation.'

Jo shrugged and then picked up her jacket and bag.

'Perhaps. I suppose they both fit your criteria of recently recruited women outside Section Two or Three, but I can't see how either of them would have access to anything which would interest someone like Lee-Hua Bolt, not really.'

'Yeah, well I'll run their names through the system and see if it turns anything

up. Otherwise it's back to square one' Napoleon replied grimly. Jo smiled and grasped his chin between her fingers, drawing him towards her.

'Why don't you just let it stew inside that fertile brain of yours for a while, and then I predict you'll come up with something. If you stop trying to think about it, some word, some look will suddenly become significant. And if it does, then you can talk it over with the blond genius when he finally gets back.'

Napoleon smiled broadly and then kissed her.

'Well the 'blond genius' should be within talking range very soon, I hope' he said.

As Jo gathered her papers together, he walked over to the window and glanced down. The blonde nurse, Yvonne Shumway, emerged from the hotel into the arms of a tall man, who appeared to be in a hurry. Gripping her arm, he led her rapidly towards the edge of the pavement, where within seconds a yellow cab appeared and swallowed them up into the New York evening. Napoleon frowned, before turning away from the window and heading towards more conducive company.

xxxxxxxx

Therese slammed the door shut and leaned against its cool solidity before climbing the stairs to their bedroom, the bright sunshine, casting shards of jagged light all over the newly painted soft grey walls. She kicked her shoes off under the bed before slipping off her coat and staring at herself in the long mirror covering part of the wardrobe door.

The encounter with the woman outside the shoe shop had upset her more than she had at first realised, and she was sure it was for a more important and deeper reason than just what she looked like. For the umpteenth time Jo had lectured her on her appearance after lunch at the Solo's house the previous Sunday, but, like all the times before, Tess had smiled and let it go over her head. After they had returned from the shoe shop and she had finally said goodnight to the oldest of her children, the house sinking into its usual evening calm, she had gone into the bedroom and stood before the same mirror she now gazed at herself in, and she had seen the same tired looking woman who had been reflected in the shop window that afternoon, looking worriedly back at herself.

She had sat on the bed and cried silently and for some time about something she still wasn't sure about. After a while she stopped, wiping her face and then sitting staring at herself through the metal rods which framed the end of their bed. It seemed that in three long months she had allowed the responsibility of caring for her family and pursuing her career, together with the constant worrying about Illya, to reduce her to the haggard looking woman she now seemed to be. She couldn't remember the last time she had worn makeup or had allowed anyone near her hair. She had taken to wearing the same, limited combinations of jeans and t-shirts, a jumper thrown over in the colder months and her hair scraped back into a ponytail to complete the uniform she had unconsciously adopted. Despite feeding her children regularly and well, she had lost weight, her clothes beginning to feel loose on her delicate frame.

As well as missing Illya, she was without the support of his mother. Marina Kuryakin had been summoned to Israel to testify against the Nazi Konstantin Blau in the trial which had begun almost immediately after Illya had left New York. The vast quantity of evidence meant that three months later, she and Peter were still in Jerusalem, and as the days passed, Therese longed for her return with increasing desperation.

The morning after the shoe shop meeting the telephone had rung just as she had let herself into the house after delivering the children to school. Fortunately this was one of the two days Jo shepherded 'the terrible trio' as she called them to the crèche at UNCLE, the four children sharing a taxi with her and sometimes even Napoleon while Tess headed towards Steinhardt and her job. She had just put down the phone after informing the College she was working from home that day when it instantly rang again. She had snatched it up, assuming it was the College, not wanting there to be a reason why she'd have to go after all. Napoleon's voice was almost a relief until some deeply coiled fear surged up into her throat, making her choke on her reply.

'Tess, are you alright?' She had swallowed hard and managed to stammer a 'fine' to his enquiry. Long experience suddenly alerted him to her distress. 'It's OK. I mean, he's OK. He should be with you today, er, sometime round lunchtime, I reckon. Um, is the school concert thing still on?'

Therese had leaned back against the wall of the hallway, catching sight of herself again in the mirror over the front room fireplace. Suddenly, she had stood upright.

'Lunchtime. Are you sure?'

'Er, yes, that's what he told me. You OK with that?'

'Perfectly. Right, um, the school thing is still on, six o'clock, don't be late. Thanks for letting me know. Bye.'

Napoleon put the phone down, staring at it for a few moments, before scratching his head with the pencil he happened to be holding.

'What's wrong?' Connie enquired, handing him a fat folder with the words '_Genea_ – Medical background' on it.

'Er nothing, at least I don't think so. I just told her that the love of her life was on his way back to the ancestral home and she gave me the impression she was desperate to get out of the house for some reason.' Connie smiled knowingly.

'And you can't imagine what that reason might be? Ask your wife. It's what she always does when you're heading home after one of your little trips away.'

Napoleon smiled. 'But Tess is not Josefina. In fact we're a little concerned about her. Have you seen her lately?' Connie looked down, her face more serious. It was true; until Napoleon had said, she hadn't realised just how long it had been since she'd seen Tess. The Kuryakin children usually came and left with Josefina Solo, and since Illya had been gone, Tess had not been near UNCLE. She suddenly felt ashamed that three months had elapsed without them even speaking on the phone, let alone meeting.

'Jo thinks she's neglecting herself, but she ranks second in line for mule stubbornness after you know who, so I guess whatever she was desperate to do, it can't be what you imagine it is' he said, opening the folder. Connie picked up the phone again and dialled, replacing the receiver again after it was obvious that there was no-one home to answer.

'Well, whatever the reason, I guess you'll have to wait until tonight' she murmured.

Tess glanced at her watch. It had taken virtually the whole morning, but it had been worth it. She turned away from the mirror and took hold of the shopping bags, carefully pulling out the dress and laying it on the bed, and then opening the shoe box and pulling the new shoes free of their tissue wrappings. She delved inside a smaller bag, tipping the contents onto the bed. Several items of makeup fell out, Tess screwing up the bill and aiming it successfully at the waste paper basket lurking behind the chaise longue. She picked up the dress and draped it over the pink chaise, before gathering up the makeup and arranging the items carefully on her bedside table. Sliding off her clothes, she walked jauntily to the bathroom and turned on the bath taps until the bath was filled with a mass of soapy swirling water. It was only when she was fully immersed that she remembered she'd forgotten the most important ingredient.

xxxxxxx

Tess slammed the chocolate down on the kitchen table and glanced up at the kitchen clock. She'd run down the basement steps two at a time, a sense of elation eclipsing the momentary disappointment she'd felt at not being able to transform herself into the goddess she thought he might want to see when he returned. She stood for a while, listening, but the sound of the clock seemed to drown out any other clue that someone else might be in the house. _As if I would hear you even if you were here _she thought.

She checked the fridge, noting that nothing had been removed. Two white _panna cottas _wobbled delicately, nodding their approval that their chocolate accompaniment had been remembered at the cost of their creator's appearance. She shut the door carefully, and then flipped the dial of the oven, staring through the glass at the casserole dish inside before smiling and leaving the room.

There was no indication that anything had changed in the hall. A box left by the back room door contained the children's old shoes, now ready for disposal when she had the time. There were no other shoes in the hall, no other coat hung on the hooks above. Therese sighed and stared at herself yet again in the mirror. She had managed to wash her hair before rushing out; now it hung, semi-dry, like heavy brown coils down her back. She walked up the stairs, more slowly now, and went into the bathroom.

She picked up the wet towel from the floor where she had dropped it, and opened the lid of the dirty linen basket, her heart giving a slight lurch at its contents. Nestling in the bottom was a white shirt, partially covered by two black socks and some soft white underwear. Dropping the towel over the clothes, she stood for a moment, before taking off her own garments and dropping them into the basket over the others.

He was lying across the bed, the clean sheets she'd put on after Napoleon's call now a little crumpled over and around him. She forced herself not to either shout his name or run up to him, knowing from experience that whatever he looked like, his reactions would be sudden and might be deadly. He looked pale even in the warm sunlight, the familiar scars on his back made more livid by the whiteness of the skin around them. Tess frowned at his thin frame, and the loss of fat round the familiar face now pressed against the pillow. _I hate this_, she thought suddenly, _I hate him coming back to me like this_.

She dropped to her knees and came up beside his head.

'Illyusha, _leve-toi, cheri'_.

'_Non, couche-toi avec moi, chatton'_. His lips hardly seemed to move, the eyes above them remaining closed. Only his body imperceptibly at first began to move back to make space for her. Therese slid into the hollow his body had created for her, his arm enfolding her for a few moments until finally his eyes opened. Slowly, purposefully, he drew her close and began to kiss her very, very slowly.

CHAPTER FOUR

'Papa, are you goin' bed time?' Illya frowned at his youngest daughter, before he heard Therese say from behind him,

'No darling, Papa just needed to lie down after his journey, that's all.' She pulled the back of his bathrobe back a little and blew onto his neck, then kissed the short hair tapering down, before surreptitiously pinching the backside she could feel so firmly as she pressed herself up to him. Illya groaned slightly, and decided he needed to sit down quickly before something even more embarrassing and difficult to explain happened.

He hauled Anastasiya up onto his chest and collapsed onto the green sofa, the boys immediately appearing from behind one of the large upholstered chairs pushing identical trucks filled with an assortment of bricks.

'Boys! Watch out for papa's toses' Tasiya yelled in an imperious voice as the boys hurtled past. 'Those boys is rough' Tasiya confided into his ear, before thrusting a little book towards him, narrowly missing his nose.

'Be careful of Papa's nose' Therese warned her, before skilfully guiding the twins towards their parking place behind the chair and then lifting them up as she headed for the door. 'I'll take these two up' she said, so you can have some quality time with madam there.' Illya glanced up at Tess as she turned, the twins now riding in the crook of her arms, holding on fiercely to her neck like human jug handles. He was suddenly struck by how slight she appeared, her shoulders not looking as if they could bear the weight of the two chubby toddlers.

'Are you alright?' he asked, putting down the book momentarily. She smiled, her eyes ringed by dark circles he hadn't noticed as they had laid together all afternoon in the warmth of the sunshine filtering through their bedroom window. Tess hesitated fractionally, and then nodded. 'Fine, of course' she replied, before slipping out of the room, the sounds of the twins echoing up the stairs until finally the door shut behind them.

Illya was drawn back into the world of Squirrel Nutkin by his daughter furiously poking him with the edge of the book. He opened it and started to read, Tasiya peering alternatively at the book and then wonderingly into his eyes.

'Papa,' she said at last, 'Owl is very scary, but Squirrel Nut is very, very naughty, like Valya.'

'Yes, he is naughty sometimes' Illya replied, looking again at the picture, but not as naughty as Squirrel I don't think.' He looked at Tasiya, who now had a sort of triumphant look on her face.

'He _is_, papa' she insisted. 'He bited Uncle Frank 'cause he don't like his hair cutted.' Illya frowned.

'Oh' he said. 'I hope he apologised. Biting is naughty, even if you don't like your hair being cutted, I mean cut.'

'Mama says you don't like your hair being cutted, but you don't bite Uncle Frank.' Illya's lips writhed at the image, but Tasiya remained serious.

'Papa, I was scared of the man at the shoe shop and so was Pabby.'

'What man, _lapin_?' It was Anastasiya's turn to frown now.

'The man with the pretty lady. Passy said he don't like children, but Pabby cried, I saw him. The man had scary eyes, like Owl.' Illya put the book down carefully and held Anastasiya closer. She snuggled close to him, putting her head on his chest, her bright red hair vibrant against the darkness of his robe.

'Papa,' she said at last, in a voice heavy with sleep, 'don't go 'way in case that scary man comes.'

Illya stroked her hair until he felt her breathing change and her body relax into his. He picked her up and carried her upstairs, momentarily confused by finding that her bed had been moved into the room at the top of the house where Pascale slept. The room had been re-arranged, Anastasiya's small bed and array of toys randomly displayed on one side, while her sister's bed and desk, with a kind of military neatness, lay against the other wall. Illya pulled back the covers and gently lay the little girl down, covering her with the sheets before kneeling down by the side of the bed and kissing her brow. He lent back onto his haunches for a few moments, watching her.

'Papa will be there for you, _lapin_. For all of you.'

xxxxxxxxx

The school hall was a mass of seething humanity as they arrived; men and women of several generations come to witness the talents of the people they loved most in the world, the children there to perform for those that loved them. Illya was surprised to see the Waverlys sitting rather expectantly towards the front of the hall, Napoleon and Jo beside them, and, not surprisingly, two Section Three agents, a man and a woman masquerading as parents just behind. Dorothy Waverly turned round as he looked, standing up and signalling to them rather enthusiastically. Therese moved forward, holding his hand tightly as they threaded their way through the crush of parents and grandparents trying to find their seats.

Dorothy leaned over her husband towards Napoleon as she smoothed the silky pleats of her dress.

'Napoleon dear, it's none of my business, and I imagine dear Illya's _gamine _appearance is down to some ghastly mission he's been undertaking, but I really do think someone could have made sure dear Therese was suitably cared for in his absence. My dear, she looks as if a slight wind might blow her away.' Napoleon twisted in his seat as the Kuryakins reached their row, Therese kissing Alexander Waverly before leaning forward to kiss Dorothy. Compared to what he looked like before, Napoleon thought that Illya seemed pretty good, in fact he could detect a definite improvement in his partner's sense of well-being. Tess, on the other hand, looked happy, it was obvious she was delighted to get her husband back, but it was true, there was a difference in her which he wondered whether his partner had detected.

'Swap places for a mo, I want to talk to Tessy'. Jo had apparently read his mind and was already signalling her to come over. He managed to scramble past the Waverly's, kissing Tess as she gently pushed past the other way. Close up, the slightly gaunt look was more obvious, and he sat down with a worried look clouding his face.

'I see you got home safely and enjoyed your afternoon off' he began, watching Illya begin to purse his lips. Before he had the chance to reply, Napoleon continued, 'quite a lot of people are worried about Tess, Illya.' Surprisingly, the Russian looked down, a serious expression on his face.

'She hardly touched a mouthful when we all ate together' he said quietly. 'I have a medical to endure on Monday, and I told her she should consider seeing someone too.'

'And she agreed?' Napoleon saw a faint smile pass fleetingly across his partner's face.

'Not yet. But I'm working on it' he replied, glancing sideways at the two women beyond the Waverlys. 'It seems that your wife is employing a less subtle approach.' Napoleon yanked himself round. He could see Josefina gesticulating with her hands and talking animatedly, Tess silent, her head lowered. He got up and squeezed past Mr and Mrs Waverly, noticing that his rescue was appreciated by his sister in law. With a great deal more ease she slipped past the other way, and back into the seat next to her husband.

Illya squeezed her hand and gazed worriedly at her.

'Alright, alright, I surrender. I promise to eat until I burst and do something about my hair' Therese said, kissing him, ignoring the slight clucking noise coming from the seats behind them.

'Your hair is lovely, it's your body I'm worried about' Illya replied, aware now of listening ears behind them. 'You can come with me on Monday, and I don't want any arguments, alright?' Before she could reply he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind.

'We're glad to see you're back with us at last, Mr Kuryakin; Eileen was only saying to Sister Ingrid that Therese here looks as if she has the world on her shoulders.' Illya sighed, catching Napoleon's expression as he shifted in his seat and turned towards the two women behind them. Eileen O'Halloran and her sister Deirdre leaned towards them, their red hair styled almost identically in short rigid curls proclaiming their ethnic origin before their accents, broadly Irish despite living in New York for twenty years, confirmed the country of their birth.

'Well I'm glad to be back Mrs Flaherty' Illya managed, before Eileen burst in,

'Will we be seeing you at Mass on Sunday then? Your girl has a _tirrible_ job of controlling those little holy terrors of yours, so she does. You know, last week, during the sermon no less, the little _divil_ ran along the back of church and pulled all the Mass books down from the shelves. It's a shame he doesn't take after his big sister. Sister Ingrid said that girl is a born nun.'

Illya was aware of Tess grinning at the pained expression on his face, as she turned round.

'Valentin is a bit of a handful at the moment' she said, smiling at the two women behind. 'He takes after his father.' She stroked Illya's hair as the two sisters began on a long discourse about the need for strict discipline in the home.

'I imagine _this_ is because of the visit you made on your way home' she whispered as her fingers ran through the cropped hair at the back of his head.

'Mm. I'm afraid I looked a bit untidy and I didn't think it was appropriate' he whispered back, thinking back to the conversation they had had about Katya in bed that afternoon. 'The trouble with barbers is that they never know when to stop' Illya continued, as Tess smoothed it down and turned back to face the stage.

'You should try Valentin's approach' she murmured into his ear.

The considerable noise in the hall suddenly quietened, as Sister Stephanie climbed onto the stage. Her tall slim figure and rather long, serious face commanded almost instant obedience from children and adults, but Illya knew from the many conversations they had enjoyed together that she was possessed of a formidable intellect and a very dry wit which she used effectively in her frequent dealings with both parents and the church authorities.

She gazed across the hall, taking in at a glance who was present, and who was not. Her eyes held Illya for a few moments, a slight smile drifting across her features before she glanced back towards the curtains.

'On behalf of the children and staff of St Clare's I'd like to thank you for coming tonight to support your children' she began. 'The performances are as listed on your programme, except for the fact that items five to ten cannot now be accompanied as Sister Ingrid has been taken ill this morning, I'm afraid.' She hesitated, to allow the murmuring among the audience to subside, before continuing, 'that is, unless there's anyone here kind enough to take Sister's place.' There was a recurrence of murmuring amongst those in front of her. Illya looked down until his head was jerked upwards by a sharp dig in his side.

'Illya dear, you're marvellous on the pianoforte; why don't you volunteer?' Dorothy Waverly beamed at him, while Illya noticed her husband turning round as she spoke.

'Yes, I'm sure Mr Kuryakin would be only too pleased to help out. I was looking forward to hearing the children play; now you can make it a Kuryakin ensemble.' Illya could have smacked Napoleon, who was leaning forward to enjoy the conversation at a safe distance, but instead he only sighed inwardly and slowly raised his hand. He could see Sister Stephanie nodding at him, as if this had all been arranged. He squeezed his way along the row to a ripple of applause and a few sighs from two or three teenage older sisters lurking near the front of the hall.

'Thank you, Mr Kuryakin; I was hoping you would take the hint' Sister Stephanie murmured as he approached her. 'They're in Miss Middleton's room, so you've time to practise the pieces if you need to.' Illya nodded and headed out of the hall and down the quiet corridor past darkened classrooms until excited noises, human and musical, alerted him to the right room.

A cacophony of sound assaulted his ears as he entered the room, suddenly halted by his appearance, as twenty faces peered enquiringly at him. A little cry came from behind the piano as Pascale, closely followed by Pablo rushed towards him. Illya crouched slightly to take the impact of his son and daughter, Pascale's normal quiet control forgotten by her delight in seeing her father again.

'Papa, what are you doing here?' Pascale asked eventually, after the room had returned to its former level of noise.

'Well it seems I'm Sister Ingrid's replacement' Illya replied, as Miss Middleton approached. She was holding a music folder with the various sheets of music marked in order, making Illya wonder how much of a set -up this was proving to be.

'I've marked the pieces' she said enthusiastically, 'you can practise if you can hear yourself above this rabble.' He smiled and took the folder, Pablo and Pascale gently making a way for him through the other children, who'd now quietened a little and were staring at him as he sat down at the piano.

'Who is Cecilia Lubbock?' Illya asked, taking his glasses out of his jacket pocket. A diminutive dark haired girl clutching a recorder stepped forward. 'Cecilia, you're first' he said. 'Oh, my favourite; sing little birdy.'

xxxxxx

'How many more?' Napoleon whispered in Josefina's ear, before settling back into his seat. Giving him a slight glare, she consulted the programme. His partner had appeared mid-way through the performances, patiently playing along to a number of children's musical renditions, all greeted with rapturous applause by the audience.

'There's just Pablo left – they've saved the best until last' Jo said, as Illya helped his son with his 'cello and then assisted him to tune up. Even Napoleon, who enjoyed music but never claimed to know anything about it, knew that this child had a special talent which he'd shown right from his first days with Illya and Therese. The audience appeared to be in on this knowledge, becoming still as the boy finally took up his bow and nodded slightly to his father. Napoleon glanced down at the programme. The piece was one he had heard Pablo practising, and had heard him talk about when he returned from the extra tuition he was receiving.

Sister Stephanie jumped lightly onto the stage, and after giving Illya a warm smile, turned towards the audience.

'We're very proud to announce that Pablo has won a scholarship to study at the Juilliard this summer' she began, to loud clapping from below. And before we hear Pablo, may I just ask you to give a round of applause to Mr Kuryakin here for bravely and so competently accompanying our musicians this evening. Napoleon could see his partner wince slightly, before rising a little from his seat. 'So, ladies and gentleman,' Sister Stephanie continued, 'we're ready to hear Pablo play 'The Dying Swan' now.'

Illya gazed at the music and waited for Pablo to begin, the first few, poignant chords of the music drawing him into its evocation of a slow sinking into death. He had played for Pablo before, but this time it felt different, the audience drifting away as the music bound them together in its tender bittersweet story. Illya was drawn back to their first meeting, the children he had dreamed of, entombed in a Mallorcan farmhouse by the woman he still searched for. He glanced across at Therese, now sitting next to Dorothy Waverly. Her Mallorcan ancestry gave her the same skin tones as their adopted son, and in the fading light, she looked remarkably sultry, her hair framing her face as she gazed lovingly at her boys on the stage.

They were still clapping as Pablo suddenly dropped the cello with a huge clang and ran off the stage. Illya wasn't quick enough to prevent him from running out of the hall, the shock of it rendering the audience speechless for a few moments, before a general hubbub ensued. Therese scrambled out of the row as Illya ran back towards her.

'I'll go after him' she said quickly, 'you get Pascale. 'He saw something at the back and it scared him' she added, pushing her way through a number of people who'd started to move towards the exit at the back of the hall. Sister Stephanie appeared at the door to the classroom corridor, a worried look creasing her normally calm face.

'Mrs Kuryakin, Pablo is in the corridor. Why don't you take him into church and see if you can find out what upset him? He won't tell me, understandably. It's open, and it's quiet there, away from all this,' she added, giving a slight wave of her hand.

'We'll come and find you in a few minutes' Illya said, aware of Napoleon coming up to him, Pascale in tow.

'What was all that about?' Napoleon said, glancing round the room as, with children and adults now united, people began to drift slowly away.

'I have no idea' Illya replied, looking towards the back of the hall. 'Tess seems to think he saw something.' Pascale slid across to her father and put her arm round his waist.

'He'll tell mama' she said softly, resting her head on his chest.

Napoleon could see that the Waverlys were lingering at the front, talking to Sister Stephanie and Jo. He walked back to them, the two Section Three agents now waiting by the exit.

'Is the boy alright?' Waverly enquired, patting his coat for the pipe they all knew he was looking forward to lighting at the first opportunity.

'Tess has taken him into church to talk to him' Napoleon said, 'I'm sure it'll be fine, sir.'

'I hope so' Waverly continued, 'his playing was remarkable. Perhaps he got a little overtired, with the performance and seeing his father again after so long.'

'Perhaps' Napoleon said. He frowned, casting his mind back over the last three years and not coming up with any other instance when Pablo had ever behaved in that way.

He watched the Waverlys' car edge out into the traffic, before feeling in his jacket for his cigarette case. He turned away from the road, a large group of people leaving the school blocking his view of the entrance to the church as he stood in the driveway. For a reason he hardly understood himself, the sight of the open Church door and the lack of light within caused him to frown with a sudden feeling of anxiety. He took a long drag from the cigarette and then threw it down, drawing his gun and breaking into a slight trot as he approached the door.

The clock reverberated in the tower as he slowed almost to a halt at the back of the church. Oddly, the lights which he had seen reflected in the stained glass windows earlier were now extinguished, only a faint glow emanating from a few candles in front of a shadowy statue in one of the aisles. Napoleon crept silently down the side of the church, hugging the wall beneath the gallery above him. He resisted the urge to shout out, an uncomfortable sensation settling over him as he approached the stairs leading up to the gallery at the east end. Two distinct sounds simultaneously divided his attention; steps on the staircase at the west end were matched by a low groan from the matching stairs at the east end. Napoleon hesitated, catching sight of the blur of a figure leaving the church before he started up the stairs.

She was lying half way up, one arm sprawled awkwardly behind her head, now a frightening mess of hair and blood. Napoleon sprinted up the stairs, ripping his communicator out as he reached her, and flicking it open.

'Open Channel D, this is an emergency medical call, St Clare's church West Village. Patch me through to Mr Kuryakin now, please.' Napoleon reached for Therese's neck, a weak, but steady pulse assuring him that she was alive. He looked up into the shadows beyond where Therese was lying, and then forced himself to go up the stairs. He could see the body lying further along; just a small, dark, silent shape wedged at the base of the raked seats stretching beyond.

Illya's voice, echoing in the silence, shook him momentarily.

'Get over here fast and don't bring Pascale' Napoleon said tersely, 'I'm on the east stairs.'

He ran back to Therese, feeling her neck again as he gently pulled back the hair from her face. A faint, thready pulse communicated her continuing survival to him. Hauling himself to his feet he ran up the stairs and along the gallery as he heard his partner arrive below him and glanced over the balcony at the solitary figure below.

'Illya, she's on the stairs' was all he could manage, his partner's already pale face looking ashen now as he froze momentarily in the central aisle of the church, before Napoleon heard him sprinting up the stairs. He knelt down then; stifling a groan as he gently raised Pablo's shoulders and pulled his body towards him.

He had regarded death many times in the face of people, innocent and guilty, but the injustice of this death for a moment overwhelmed him, freezing him into a rigid embrace of the boy which he was unable to break. He could hear below the sounds of what he presumed were the medical team; low voices, the clanking of a stretcher, orders being given, in some other world that he and this child did not inhabit. After an incalculable amount of time he felt a hand grip his shoulder, ragged breathing which he realised matched his own, someone close to him.

'Give him to me now.' For a few seconds his body seemed not to understand the request. He continued to kneel, rooted to the spot, until very gently two hands took the place of his own and Illya lifted the boy towards him.

The two men remained facing each other, the child between them for a time which afterwards neither of them could say was how long, until suddenly, Illya, with a hoarse, deep voice, stammered, 'Napoleon, he's . . I can feel a pulse'. Napoleon leapt up and clattered along the gallery, nearly losing his balance as he ran down the stairs towards the medical crew who were working on Therese .

'Get up here, stat!' he almost screamed, flattening himself against the wall as a pair of paramedics sped past him and disappeared round the corner.

The two ambulances were parked up in the driveway. Gabriel McCaffery, his hand on Illya's shoulder, stood between the open doors of each vehicle, his face calm as he whispered something into the Russian's ear, before running down the side of the church towards the Friary. Napoleon managed to catch Josefina as she emerged at a run from the school, her features anguished and distorted by the scene meeting her at the top of the path.

'Oh Jesus, Napoleon, what the hell has happened?' she said hoarsely, her head moving from one vehicle to the next then back to face him. Napoleon held her to him for a few moments, and then put his hand on her shoulders as he pushed her back slightly, looking into her eyes as he spoke.

'Someone attacked them in the church. We don't who it was or what happened. Tess is unconscious, but she's showing signs of coming round. Pablo is . . . well, he appears to be in some sort of coma. He hasn't been assaulted; he hit his head on the bench when he collapsed, that's why there was so much blood. I . . . I thought he was . . . but Illya found a pulse.' He squeezed his eyes shut and then rubbed them open again, feeling his wife in turn put her hands round his head and draw him towards her. They walked quickly to the ambulances, the paramedics beginning to shut the doors on the two vehicles. Jo grabbed Illya's arm, then kissed his head before adding,

'We'll go with Pablo, you get in with Tessy. Gabriel will bring Pascale.' Illya seemed calm, but Napoleon could see the agony in his eyes as they stared back at him in the gloom of the streetlamps above them. He nodded, then got into the back of the ambulance where Napoleon could just see Tess, one arm splinted now, lying still under the blankets on the trolley.

'We're taking them both to UNCLE Medical' Napoleon said after a few moments in which they both stared at the child on the bed in front of them, the lights of the city blanked out, just its sounds accompanying them along the roads and intersections towards mid-town. 'This can't be some random act of violence' he continued, turning towards Jo's still profile, as the ambulance lurched round, and then began to dip down towards the UNCLE underground entrance.

'And you're taking them into an organisation which you believe has a mole from Bolt working for it?' she replied, turning round. Napoleon sighed.

'I take the point, but if we took them anyplace else, it would be an even greater risk than it's going to be now, and besides, there's something about Pablo that is not quite right.'

Jo had no chance to question him about the last statement, as the ambulance ground to a sudden halt and the doors were thrown open, what looked like a whole army of medical staff awaiting it and its companion. Illya was already out of the other vehicle, his body almost folded over Tess's trolley, blocking her view of their son. Napoleon could see that the doctors attending her needed space, but were reluctant to challenge Kuryakin. Without hesitating, he grasped his shoulder.

'Illya, let them do their work. Come on, we'll meet them upstairs. We need to talk now.' Kuryakin swung round, his expression frightening to others, but not to his partner. He ran over to Pablo and kissed the bandages swathing his head, before stepping back mute while the two trolleys were rapidly wheeled into the large lifts awaiting them.

Josefina had come up behind them, her arm going instinctively round the Russian's shoulders.

'I'm going up to meet Gabriel' she said quietly; 'we'll see you in a minute'. She squeezed Illya's shoulder imperceptibly then walked swiftly to one of the two passenger lifts. Illya looked up, a brief expression of total bewilderment flooding his face. He seemed unable to speak, his world of order and logic transformed by this seemingly random and totally unexpected tragic event.

'We'll go to the office and you can get cleaned up. Give them a few minutes to work on them both. If Pascale sees you like that, she'll be worried.' Kuryakin looked down at his blood-stained jacket and shirt and then shook his head, but allowed himself to be led to the other lift. After a few more moments of gruelling silence, he finally spoke.

'It wasn't a random act. She did this.' Napoleon nodded, virtually dragging his partner along the corridor and into their office. By good luck rather than design, Illya's locker in their room contained some clothes that he usually wore over his shorts and t-shirt in the gym. Tearing off his suit and shirt, he pulled on the t-shirt and the other clothes, tying up his trainers before wrenching open the tap and washing his hands in the tiny bathroom beyond their office.

'Go. I'll contact Mr Waverly and join you in five' Napoleon said. As he searched for his communicator, he felt Illya put his hand on his arm, and then he was gone. Not for the first time Napoleon sighed deeply, then opened the channel.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER FIVE

The phone was ringing as she pushed open the door, the noise of its bell reverberating ominously round the small apartment. Yvonne threw her handbag onto the pristine sofa before picking up the receiver, knowing whose voice she would hear the other end.

'I presume you attended the concert tonight?'

'You know I did. Can we be brief, I think they'll be calling for me any minute; there's been an emergency. But you know that too, don't you?'

There was a brief silence the other end of the line, followed by an almost imperceptible sigh.

'That is no concern of yours, my dear. Listen carefully. You will need to administer the dose I specified earlier to your patient. You can pick them up in the usual place. Don't forget, Fern's future depends on it.' Before she could reply, she heard a sharp click as the conversation came to an abrupt end. A feeling of utter weakness swept through her suddenly, and she clutched at the edge of the table as she dropped the receiver heavily back into its cradle.

Almost instantly, it began to ring again, the bell sounding even harsher, as if the world had stilled to emphasise its tone.

'Miss Shumway? Can you report to Medical immediately? Code Three.' For the second time in as many minutes, the caller cut her off, assuming obedience in much the same way as her first caller had. Only this time, there was no implied threat, merely a call to duty, her obligation to the organisation she worked for.

Yvonne leaned over the sofa and picked up her bag. Unclasping it, she drew out a small photograph, preserved between the plastic layers of a tiny frame. A toddler stared out at her, the girl's soft pink face framed by straight hair of an intense blond colour. She touched the image, before turning over the frame. On the back, carefully written was a date and the name 'Fern' printed underneath.

'This is for you' she breathed, before sliding the picture back into its hiding place, and walking quickly from the room.

xxxxxxx

They were sat, a huddle of four, three adults and one child all wanting to know what was happening to the adult and child in the two rooms facing them across the corridor. Napoleon saw Illya jump to his feet and accost a nurse coming out of one room, the strain on his face evident in his lowered brow and penetrating gaze. He realised then that she was the same woman he had seen at the hotel, her white UNCLE Nurse's uniform momentarily confusing him as to her identity. As he approached, he saw her touch his partner's hand lightly, eliciting a faint glimmer of a smile from the Russian, before he pushed open the door and let it close silently behind him.

'What's the situation?' he said, as he sat down by Jo, Pascale, her face smeared by recent tears, coming over and clinging silently to him as they talked.

'Tessy is conscious but groggy; Pablo is still unconscious but they think he'll come round, his vitals are good now. He lost quite a lot of blood, but he wasn't assaulted' Jo said rather calmly, stroking Pascale's hair as she talked. 'Tess seems to have more injuries; her arm is possibly broken and she had what looks like a blow to her head too, although the doctor thinks that might have happened when she fell down the stairs.' Napoleon saw that a doctor had come over to Gabriel and was explaining something, before walking further along the corridor to the Nurses' station to use the phone.

'I'm going in to anoint Pablo' Gabriel said, coming over to them. 'Pascale, do you want to help me?' Pascale turned round and slid to the ground, nodding her head. He held out his hand, glancing at his sister before he took Pascale into the adjacent room.

'Do you think that's a good idea?' Napoleon asked, as his communicator suddenly pierced the hushed tones of the corridor.

'Yes. She needs to do something to help her brother, and she'll see this as important. Go on, answer it before it wakes up the whole department.' Napoleon pulled out the pen and twisted round the cap, getting up and walking away from the chairs and the nurses gathered round their station further along the corridor.

'Napoleon, it's Connie. You wanted a heads-up when the old man arrived. More importantly, how are they? Jeez, I can't believe it' she said, whistling slightly under her breath.

'Thanks' he replied, 'um, they both seem to be holding their own; Illya's in with Tess at the moment and Fr Gabriel's attending to Pablo, if you take my drift. I'll be down in a minute; tell that new assistant of his if she's there.'

'She's there. You'd better hurry.' The line went dead, Napoleon smiling into it before twisting the cap back and replacing it in his suit pocket.

'I have to go downstairs. Page Waverly's office if you need me' he said, kissing Jo before walking over to the small square window of Tess's room.

He could see his partner had moved the chair as close to the bed as he could, and had hold of his wife's hand, rather gingerly as an IV line was attached, the other arm now encased in a cast from her wrist to her elbow. Her head was wrapped in a large bandage, her dark curly hair springing out of it into a loose ponytail down her back. She looked almost translucent to Napoleon, her thick dark lashes emphasising the paleness of her skin. He sighed and turned away, before hurrying back along the corridor to the lifts.

Lisa Rogers looked up as the door slid back, her dark eyes betraying nothing as she looked down at her desk again.

'He's waiting for you' she said rather obviously, before handing him several files she had been glancing through as he had come into the anteroom she now occupied. She had been in post for about four months, and Napoleon suddenly realised that the Russian had not met her yet. The humanity of Waverly's last assistant had been removed, along with the potted plants and the rather friendly looking hand-made cushions she had dotted around the place, to be replaced by an increasing number of rather less cosy machines and plain, steel furniture. But even worse than that, she had persuaded the powers that be to replace what Napoleon considered was the rather attractive attire of the female clerical staff with a less fitted and certainly less revealing combination of yellow roll neck top and black skirt. Solo had grimaced on the first day of its appearance, but since nobody had asked his opinion, he decided to err on the side of caution and say nothing.

'Ah, Mr Solo' Waverly said, uncharacteristically rising to his feet and coming over to Napoleon, 'how are they? What on earth happened? I thought we had the security situation under control.'

'So did I, sir. Apparently, Pablo saw something or somebody at the back of the school hall which kind of spooked him. Tess took him over to church to talk to him as it was so noisy in school, but when I'd seen you off, I noticed the lights were all off, so I followed them in. I guess they must have been in there about ten to fifteen minutes before I came in; I saw someone slip out as I got to the stairs at the east end, but I decided to help Tess and Pablo, rather than go after them.'

'Quite right; your chances of catching them would have been virtually nil, and those two young people needed your help' Waverly said, to Napoleon's relief.

'I have to say, sir, that Illya is convinced that Bolt was behind it' Napoleon continued, and the more I think about it, the more likely that seems.' Waverly frowned, and wandered over to the black leather settees in the corner of the room. A pot of coffee and two cups stood there waiting for them, the plain style of the china reflecting the efficient assistant sitting in the room beyond.

'Is Mr Kuryakin bearing up?' Waverly asked rather kindly, as they sipped the coffee and sank into the leather chairs.

'He's coping' Napoleon replied, putting down his cup. 'I believe Tess is conscious, but the boy is still out for the moment.' Waverly frowned, before motioning towards the files Napoleon had placed on the large table in the centre of the room before he sat down.

'Actually,' Waverly began again after a few moments, 'they rang through from Medical a few moments ago, when you were on your way down. It appears that there could be a few complications with Therese Kuryakin . . .' He seemed curiously vague, and Napoleon imagined that he was reluctant to discuss another person's medical details even with him. 'At any rate' Waverly continued, as if Napoleon understood, 'it appears that we may have to assist Mr Kuryakin with his domestic arrangements in the near future, which, if you'll look in the folder, you'll see could neatly dovetail with our continuing investigation of Miss Bolt. I've asked Mr Kuryakin to join us when he's finished talking to the medical staff, and then we can make some more detailed plans.'

Napoleon frowned. He had no idea what Waverly was going on about, and hoped that Illya could somehow explain when he arrived eventually. He stood up and went over to the round table, opening the file marked 'Genea', and noting the sub-heading 'Siberia' underneath. Inside, something altogether more surprising awaited him.

'Er, isn't this the emblem of the . . .'

'GRU. Exactly Mr Solo. Since the affair over that computer, The GRU has made pains to indicated its willingness, to a limited extent, to cooperate over certain projects which are deemed mutually beneficial, particularly if it is to detriment of their rivals over in the KGB' Waverly said rather mysteriously. Read on, Mr Solo.'

Napoleon turned the cover of the document and smiled sardonically.

'Yes, it seems that old friends are coming to Mr Kuryakin's aid once again' Waverly said finally.

xxxxxxxxx

'Tess, _Thérèse, cherie', _Illya murmured, his face now as close as he could get it to hers. He had put down the cot sides of the bed, laying his head beside hers, grateful to feel her gentle breath on his cheek as he gazed at her eyes, a slight fluttering of her lashes alerting him to her returning consciousness.

'Hmmm' she murmured, eventually, after a few false starts, opening her eyes and staring rather cloudily in his direction.

'_Viens, Thérèse,_ _réveille-toi.'_ He could see that she was trying, shaking her head slightly, the bandage giving her a slightly jaunty look that made him smile in spite of everything. She lay there for a few more moments, before her eyes began to clear a little more and, poking out her tongue slightly, she began moistening her lips. Illya jumped up and fumbled with some ice in a small container, which he gently held for her to suck.

'Careful, just in case you may need . . .' His words faded away as he looked at her, a lump in his throat the physical expression of his unformed prayer that she would not need any further medical intervention. He put the container with the ice down on the bedside table and stroked the hair back away from her face.

'Illyusha . . . . Pablo, he's . .' her eyes closed with the effort, pain flooding across her face.

'He's alive' he breathed into her ear, 'he'll recover, I'm sure he will.' His head bent slightly, only to jerk back up as the door opened.

Illya frowned as he saw who was following Lawrence Goepel, the neurologist who was attending both Tess and Pablo, into the room.

'Illya, Mr Shearer needs to speak to you now, if you're up to it' Goepel began rather quietly, 'then I think you're required downstairs'. Illya pursed his lips, wandering what on earth Shearer could possibly want, except to give him another lecture on family planning which would hardly be appropriate at the moment. Despite endless effort on Tess' part to make him behave more graciously towards the man, Illya could feel his hackles rising as the Gynaecologist came towards him. However, Shearer seemed oblivious of Illya's glowering stare in his direction and proceeded to shake his hand reasonably warmly before motioning him to sit down on the chair by Tess' bed, Shearer perching on the end and laying down a file between them marked with her name.

He flicked open the folder and drew out something, before looking over at Tess and then at him.

'Mr Kuryakin. When your twins were born, I did make it clear to you that any further pregnancies might be both extremely unlikely and possibly dangerous for Therese?' Illya's brows contracted. He was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what the man was saying. He looked up, suddenly realising that Goepel had disappeared and been replaced by Napoleon, who was smiling encouragingly at him, making him feel even more bad-tempered.

'You did. Pardon me for saying, but what is that to do with her present condition?' As soon as he had said it, he realised, and he felt a slight flush rise in his throat and cover his face as he stared with increasing horror at the men opposite.

'You . . um, you're not saying that . .'

'Yes, I _am_ saying that it appears your wife is, er, at least five months into her pregnancy, that is, if the foetus is still alive.'

Napoleon blurted out 'what do you mean?' in some sort of attempt to help his partner, who had now turned dumbfounded towards the figure on the bed and seemed unable to speak. Shearer appeared not to mind including Napoleon in the conversation, and continued, 'the fall on the stairs started a haemorrhage which we were able to stop finally. Although there is still a heartbeat, there is a high chance that the baby will miscarry, particularly given Mrs Kuryakin's history.'

Illya stood up suddenly, leaning against the wall behind Tess' bed, Napoleon detecting the signs of self-control the Russian was capable of exercising even in the most desperate of circumstances.

'Doctor, what do you advise?' he said slowly, his eyes fixed on the Gynaecologist. Shearer glanced over at him, frowned, and then looked back at the notes.

'You may not like this, Mr Kuryakin, and your wife will like it even less, but . . . .' Napoleon could see Illya's hands clenched together, the knuckles white with the effort, as Shearer continued, 'but if the baby survives the next few days, Therese will need to stay here, with complete bed rest until . . well for several weeks at the very least.'

Whatever Illya had been thinking Shearer was going to say, Napoleon could see that it wasn't this. His hands splayed out immediately, and his face cleared into the slightly confused expression he had seen many times mirrored on the Russian's twin boys' faces. Shearer continued, 'you will have to give thought to the domestic problems this might give you, and you do understand that she cannot under any circumstances be delivered naturally. And, of course, we need to look at her diet.'

Illya rose to his feet, stared at Therese, then stepped forward towards Shearer.

'I'll, I mean _we'll_ follow your advice, whatever it takes' he said seriously.

Napoleon came over, a slight grin lighting up his features.

'Um, there's no problem about the domestic arrangements; Mr Waverly and I have a plan.' he said confidently, ignoring Kuryakin's astonished stare.

'You do?' Illya said incredulously.

'Yes, so let's go downstairs and discuss it, and we'll leave your girl in the capable hands of these good folks in Medical, eh, comrade?' Napoleon replied, tugging at Illya's sleeve.

'Um, er, alright' Illya said, allowing himself to be dragged out of the room.

When they had gone, Bernard Shearer sat down in the chair near Tess' head. He saw her eyes move under the abundant lashes, and his suspicions of her level of alertness were confirmed when she said, slowly,

'I'm sorry I didn't come earlier. I . . found it so difficult . . . without him . .' He smiled slightly, laying the file down again between them.

'My dear' he began, 'as Mother Julian of Norwich said, '_All will be well; All manner of things will be well.'_

CHAPTER SIX

The humming of the lift provided a soothing background noise to their conversation. Illya flattened himself against the back wall, shaking his head a little and running his hand through his hair.

'Should I offer my congratulations or commiserations?' Napoleon offered after a few moments. Illya looked up.

'I feel so . . . ashamed' he said, glancing at Napoleon. 'Do you remember that party, the one just before I went away, you know, where I wore . .

'The purple pants. How could I forget.'

'We were, well, careless that night.' He slammed his fist against the lift wall, his lips a thin line of frustration on his face. 'How could I have been so . . so stupid, Napoleon!'

'Don't beat yourself up about it. Your reputation for fecundity is about to reach legendary proportions. It could be worse.' Kuryakin stared at him.

'Really. I can't imagine how much worse it could be. My wife is nearly killed, then I find that she is pregnant, seriously underweight, and could lose the baby at any time. My son is also unconscious, and God knows what psychological trauma he has suffered. Explain to me just how it could be worse.'

'I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me. I apologise, Illya.' Illya sighed, as the lift slowed.

'No, don't. I deserve to be pilloried for what I have done. Shearer warned me about it after the boys were born and I chose to ignore him. Now I must take responsibility for the mess we find ourselves in.'

'Well, as they say round here, your mess is UNCLE's mess' Napoleon replied. 'I'm sure we can work something out, in fact Waverly has something organised with one of your former . . , well, let's wait until he explains' he continued, almost under his breath, aware that his partner was barely listening.

As the lift gently came to a halt, Illya looked up in desperation.

'Pascale!' he exclaimed, 'where, I mean, what . . '

'Jo is taking her back to your house, where Frankie and Fernando will be keeping watch over the brood until Papa returns' Napoleon said calmly, signalling for Illya to go forward out of the lift. Illya sighed, then took a deep breath in and began to walk along the corridor towards Waverly's office. Napoleon realised as the door hissed open, that he hadn't had time to tell him about Miss Rogers.

She was standing in the machine room, as Napoleon now termed it, flicking through a set of cards which the computer was churning out. Her gaze took in the Russian, her expression telling Napoleon everything about how wrong pre-conceived notions could be.

'This is Miss Rogers, Illya; she moved in when you were otherwise engaged.' He saw Illya glance up at Lisa Rogers, then shift his stare towards Waverly's office, where they could see the old man looking out of the window into the night sky.

'How are your wife and son?' she said suddenly, 'I'm so sorry, that was a horrible thing that happened to them.' Napoleon stared at her, and then looked at his partner. He looked very tired, bedraggled even, his hair untidy and on end in places, and the sweat shirt and pants giving him the look of someone who'd just arrived from a hard session at the gym. Napoleon put it down to the mothering instinct and moved on.

As they entered, Waverly turned, unfazed it seemed by Illya's appearance. He came up to him and patted his shoulder, before indicating their usual places round the table. The files which Napoleon had been perusing earlier were laid out in order before them.

'Now, time is of the essence, gentlemen. Mr Solo has told me that you think the attack on your family was orchestrated by Miss Bolt, Mr Kuryakin, and, after thinking about it, I must admit I am inclined to agree with you' Waverly said. There was a short pause before Illya spoke.

'I think whoever it was intended to silence Pablo, and Therese was injured stopping that happening' he began. 'I know it sounds ridiculous, sir, but my daughter Anastasiya told me that while I was away they met a couple outside our local shoe shop. One of those two scared Pablo in some way, and it must have been the same person who caused him to run out at the end of the concert. Tasiya said he had 'scary eyes' apparently. Pascale wasn't affected but Pablo was, which leads me to believe that this person was not known to her previously, but only to him.'

Waverly frowned, and then sat back in his chair.

'Any idea who you think that person could have been?' he said quietly.

'Well, not Bolt I suppose' Napoleon said, 'on account of the fact that he was a man.' Illya had been looking somewhat vacantly across the room while Napoleon was talking. He looked across at Napoleon, his eyes focusing suddenly.

'Why not Bolt?' he said suddenly. 'Look what they did with Misha; he was an almost perfect double of me . .'

'Apart from your special feature' Napoleon smiled, touching the crown of his head.

'Exactly. What features can't be changed by plastic surgery, Napoleon?' Solo pursed his lips, thinking of the 'almost perfect' double THRUSH had created of his friend.

'Er, well double crowns on hair; hands are quite difficult, then there's . . .

'Eyes. You can change the shape a little, but the colour . . .'

'is difficult' Napoleon concluded. 'You have to use contacts really, so perhaps he, or she, didn't have them on that day. And as we know from having had the pleasure of meeting her, Miss Bolt's eyes are a particularly vicious shade of green.'

There was another brief interlude in the conversation, as the three men took in the import of the last few sentences.

'If your hypothesis is true, gentlemen, then this investigation is beginning to take a rather serious and sinister turn. We may have to face the fact that Miss Bolt is in New York and that we have no clear idea yet what she may now look like. It appears that only your family, Mr Kuryakin, may be able to identify her. We need to pursue this enquiry on two fronts; to investigate the evidence from these islands and try to find where this operation is being run from, and also to find out where Miss Bolt is, and if she is here in New York what on earth she is doing.'

Waverly picked up the folder in front of him, motioning to the two agents to do the same.

'This may give us at least a start in both directions' he said. As he began to talk, Napoleon kept Illya in his sight as the Russian opened the document. Illya frowned deeply when he saw the GRU insignia, but it was the next page which evoked the more extreme reaction on the Russian's already harried face. He stared at what Napoleon knew was a photograph, a whole series of minute expressions crowding his face, expressions which Napoleon could read from years closely studying his inscrutable partner. When control was established, he put down the folder.

'And how will a member of the GRU be able to both solve my imminent domestic disaster and help us to find Bolt's enterprise?' he asked calmly, glaring a little at Napoleon's attempt to suppress a smile.

'I would have thought that was obvious' Waverly replied, seemingly unaware of Kuryakin's discomfort. 'Madame Arshavina will act as your '_au pair'_ to begin with, where she will have access to UNCLE and you through the crèche, therefore being able to liaise with us during the day. If the situation demands it, she can also join you in the field, and we will make arrangements for the care of the children in that case. As you can see, she is coming with valuable information that could make a huge difference in this case.'

'And what is the trade-off, sir' Napoleon said, glancing at his partner, who was now rifling through the file.

'The trade-off has already happened, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin's work in Gorky provided the Russian government with a considerable amount of information in the field of information technology, and they were also able, as I said to you before, to

achieve what do you call it? Ah yes, 'pay-back' on their friends at the KGB.'

Illya looked up from the file, a pensive expression settling on his face.

'I didn't know she'd married' he mumbled, looking down at the sheet again.

'Ah yes, her husband is Sergei Arshavin, an external attaché at the Russian Embassy in New York, Mr Kuryakin.'

'So they're both GRU' Illya replied, shutting the file. How cosy.'

'I don't think you have anything to fear from that organisation at the moment' Waverly said. Although one can never know exactly what is in these people's minds.' He stood up and looked at his watch, raising his eyebrows.

'Goodness, look at the time. I must go and pay my respects to your wife and son, Mr Kuryakin, and you need to go home to your families, gentlemen. I believe Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina will be contacting you directly, Mr Kuryakin, and after we know what she has to say, orders will be issued accordingly.'

'_Lieutenant Colonel'_ Napoleon whispered, as they followed Waverly out of the room. 'Well let's hope she's not waiting for you in the same place she was last time.'

xxxxxxxx

The pharmacy was dark, apart from a light in the little office where the duty pharmacist worked. A number of metal containers lay on tables in one part of the larger room leading from it, each one clearly marked as to destination and contents. Miranda Jones stifled a yawn and finished her coffee, before going out into the large dispensing room and turning on the lights. She blinked at their harshness, whilst throwing a cursory glance along the open containers.

For some reason, the one at the end caught her attention. She walked over to it, noting the neatly arranged bottles of drugs usually kept in the Medical department, as well as those which had been prescribed for particular patients. Amongst the IV bags and phials she saw an unusual capsule nestling, almost hidden by the boxes and bottles around it. She drew it out, reading the label pasted on it, with the usual UNCLE insignia and the name 'Kuryakin' followed by the initials and date of birth of the recipient. Slipping the phial in her lab coat pocket she walked back to the office and typed in the name on the pharmacy computer.

'Interesting' she muttered under her breath. The first listing, under the name 'Illya Nikovetch , comprised many pages of prescription drugs going back some years, together with a note of allergies, including, she noted, penicillin. But this drug was not prescribed for him. She remembered who he was now, or rather who people had told her he was, because he hadn't been around when she had joined UNCLE three months ago. Miranda peered at the list again. There were other Kuryakins it seemed, a wife and several children including two sets of twins. Miranda exhaled deeply at this, thinking the woman must be a saint or a fool, and wondering just what sort of man could persuade someone to have that many children.

She glanced back at the phial, and then returned to the screen. Oddly, despite the label on the drug, nothing extra had been prescribed for this particular Kuryakin that evening.

'Now what on earth is this, and why would you be prescribed it?' she said to herself, fishing around for the phial again. For a few moments she stood looking at the small glass container, its contents swishing gently as she revolved it between her fingers, before dropping it back in her pocket, turning on her heel and walking towards a large set of shelves in the dispensing room. Reaching up, she pulled down a box of almost identical phials, clearly marked 'Vitamin Supplement'. Pulling off the label, she sat at the machine and typed out an identical label to the one on the container inside her coat and attached it to the vitamin phial, replacing it in the same pharmacy box. Glancing round finally, she turned off the light, went into her room and picked up the telephone.

'Put me through to Section 2 please. I need to speak to Mr Solo. Oh, and then, could you put me through to Medical?'

xxxxxxx

The taxi screeched to a halt outside Solo's house, the driver's voice matching his driving technique. Napoleon squirmed slightly as the car roared off in the direction of mid-town, before turning gratefully towards his front door. The house had been theirs for only a short time; still as elegant as the apartment, but somehow more welcoming than its predecessor.

He thought about the events of the evening as he pressed his fingers into the panel at the side of the door, wondering about why Lee-Hua Bolt should want to risk exposure by appearing in New York; picturing Therese's ghostly face on the pillow in medical, and, worst of all, reliving his own feelings of horror and loss as he gazed at Pablo in the darkness of the church. He could see the shadow of the large lamp on the landing upstairs, and began to climb the stairs gratefully, stopping first outside his son's room and slowly pushing the door open. Fabian lay sprawled across his bed, his dark curly hair and long, thick eyelashes instantly reminding his father of Therese's face as he looked down at him. Napoleon kissed him, gently pulled the sheet over the sleeping child and retreated out of the room with silent footsteps.

Jo was lying propped up in bed, her customary yellow pad on her knees, thoughtfully sucking the end of a long silver pencil as she stared at the paper in front of her.

'Did Illya get back before you left?'

'Yes, just.' She lay the pencil down on the bed beside her and looked at Napoleon as he threw his shirt and underwear into a basket at the end of the room. 'He looked terrible.' Napoleon nodded slightly and then slid into bed beside her. He could see that she had been making a long list of names, all of them women, none of whom Napoleon recognised.

'Well, we have a plan, as they say, to give him a little helping hand, now that Tess is going to be in medical until the baby's OK' he said, lying back on the pillows and putting his arm round her shoulders. She jerked round, the pencil and pad sliding into the space between them.

'What baby? Please tell me you are joking, Napoleon.'

''Fraid not. Shearer gave him the good news tonight. Apparently your sister kept it to herself for whatever reason.'

'I will kill him. No, I will kill them both.' She flung herself back on the pillows and then turned towards him, laying her head on his chest.

'What is it?' She lay silently for a while; Napoleon felt her shudder slightly as he held her, her breathing audible against the traffic's distant hum.

'I'm sorry.'

'About what?'

'I'm sorry that while those two seem to be re-populating New York, I'm unable to give you more than one offspring, however charming and beautiful he has turned out to be.'

Jo pulled away from him a little and then sat up, scrabbling for the pencil and pad. Napoleon sighed and pulled the pillows up behind him, before yanking his body back against them.

'For the thousandth time, Jo, it's fine. He's one more than we expected, so we need to be thankful for small mercies, eh?' He rarely saw his wife look as she did now, a kind of sad regret filling her lovely face as she stared back at him. If he was honest, under the joking exterior he had felt more than a twinge of black jealousy when he stood next to Kuryakin in the elevator going down to Waverly's office. He had forced it down then, and now he felt nothing but a profound sadness for Jo and a deep sympathy for his partner's pain. He kissed her, and then, reaching out to turn off the light, gently pulled her closer to him and began to explore the woman that he loved, the pain and shock of the evening forgotten, if only for a while.

The phone's piercing ring jarred him out of a dream which he was reluctant to leave. He carefully unwound himself from Jo's embrace, and lifted the handset, a slight ripple of fear spreading through the back of his mind as he did so.

'Solo'

'Mr Solo. I don't suppose you remember me; my name is Miranda Jones, I work in Pharmacy. I tried to get you earlier, but you'd already left the building.' Napoleon shook his head slightly and gazed rather unsteadily at the clock on the bedside table.

'Miss Jones, um, I presume this is urgent otherwise you wouldn't be ringing me at five o'clock in the morning.' There was a slight pause before the voice which he only vaguely remembered hearing before continued.

'Yes, I'm sorry, and it is urgent. I found something you may be interested in when checking the pharmacy boxes this evening.' Napoleon's brain finally made the connection between her department and her voice. She was the girl with the Chinese ancestry who came from Virginia. The girl who was talking to the nurse at the UNCLE tea party. Napoleon sat up and swung his legs over on the side of the bed.

'Er, Miss Jones, what exactly did you find and why might it concern me?'

'I'd prefer to meet outside UNCLE, Mr Solo. There's a coffee shop open in the Village, at the end of Christopher Street. You know it? I'll meet you there in half an hour. All I can say is that the drugs are directly related to a member of Mr Kuryakin's family.'

Before he could reply she had put the phone down. He glanced across at Jo, then got up quickly, dressed, and went out as the dawn slid across the tops of the houses opposite.

xxxxxxx

Illya peered out of the window and then turned away, glad to be out of the sheets that he had wrestled with for what felt like long hours during the night. He could see light beginning to break through in soft shards across the sky, illuminating the room enough for him to be able to find and pull on his running gear and then walk silently past sleeping children's rooms to the front door.

He had finally consented to Frankie and Fernando staying, too exhausted to argue about whether they kept to their own beds in Pablo's room. Frankie had insisted on feeding him some soup she had made, the sheer warmth and nourishment of it making him feel even more sleepy and emotional than before. He had nevertheless dragged himself round to check on the other children, their sleeping forms making him want to weep at their beauty and innocence before his exhausted eyes. Finally he had thrown himself into bed, trying not to think too much about what had happened or dwell on what lay ahead.

He slid open a small draw inside an innocuous looking French armoire which stood in their hallway, removing a small knife and a few other things which he rammed into the pockets of his shorts. Opening the door, he glanced up towards St Clare's, his eyes narrowing at the memory of his last visit, before gently pulling the door closed and running away towards Christopher Street.

xxxxxx

She was sitting in the corner, the position giving her a direct view of the door and Napoleon as he entered. The place was a dive, usually frequented by students or other people who didn't seem to have a home to go to. The purple walls were studded with a ramshackle assortment of badly hung posters advertising various events in the neighbourhood, together with an assorted range of the usual photos of rock groups with names someone who must have been high on drugs had come up with in a relatively lucid moment.

Napoleon ignored the stares of a couple of young men whose hair hadn't seen a comb in the last year, and advanced over to Miranda's table. She was looking down, but he had the strong impression that she had known he was there from the moment he entered the place. Without speaking, he drew up a chair and motioned to the man behind the bar, whom he noticed was having difficulty in forcing himself out from his place owing to the size of his stomach, which hung over his jeans spectacularly, and was in danger of sweeping most of his customers' china onto the floor as he squeezed past them.

He ordered a coffee for himself, Miranda shaking her head, and beginning to look round the room rather furtively. After it had arrived, she looked round again and began.

'I hope this hasn't been a wasted journey'.

'Well, I'll let you know when you've told me why we're here' Napoleon replied, taking a sip of the coffee, which turned out to be better than he had imagined it would be.

'I was checking the pharmacy boxes this evening, and I came upon something rather irregular' she said. 'I don't know if you realise, Mr Solo, but there is a box for each bay on Medical with standard items, and then those drugs specially prescribed for patients there.' Napoleon nodded. The girl appeared calm, cool even, but he put that down to her cultural background. 'I checked on the computer' she continued, 'no new drugs had been prescribed. What I can't understand is . . .'

Before she could speak, Napoleon saw her grip the table, her face twisted into a grimace of pain that eventually became a low gurgling scream as she dropped to the floor. Blood began to ooze from her nose, a soapy green froth beginning to fill her open mouth and seep onto her neck as she began to writhe in front of him. Napoleon leapt to his feet, shouting to the barman as the rest of the clientele made a simultaneous stampede for the door. He knelt down by her head, trying to understand the series of unintelligible noises issuing from the dying woman's lips.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder as her body stilled, her eyes staring, fixed and sightless.

Is she dead?'

Napoleon looked up into the face of his partner. He was wearing his usual early morning running outfit, his t-shirt and hair stuck down with sweat, and his breathing slowly returning to normal as he bent over in front of the American. 'I saw you in here with her when I ran by, but I thought . . you had a meeting . . . so I came back . . . this way.' he said rather breathlessly.

'I did. Unfortunately, someone seems to have given my date a little something to bring the meeting to a rather sudden conclusion' Napoleon said, standing up and waiting until Kuryakin straightened. Glancing at the body, Napoleon leaned over the table and retrieved her handbag, which was looped on the back of the chair behind her. He tipped the contents onto the table, sorting through the usual melange of makeup and writing material found in most women's bags. Illya picked up her purse, an efficient looking black leather wallet, and began to rifle through the contents, drawing out some dollar bills and an assortment of cards.

'Nothing really interesting here, but the boys in Section Three can go through it all later' he said, looking up as Napoleon removed the top of his communicator. Illya followed him out of the café; the barman was now talking to a police officer, gesticulating in Napoleon's direction, before pointing towards the body lying amongst the tables.

'You deal with him while I call this one in' Illya said, taking the communicator from him.

Afterwards, Napoleon couldn't quite decide why he had glanced backwards, but he had. As he turned away from Illya, his view of the café tables took in something he hadn't seen before; a small box discretely placed underneath a round table in the middle of the room, upon which sprawled a variety of plastic bottles containing what he imagined were sauces to accompany the fast food which the barman obviously ate at too regular intervals during the day. In the blast he could still hear the echo of his shout ringing in his ears as he hurled himself against the Russian, the shattering sound of the glass window followed almost instantly by a deep roar as flames shot out from the black hole where the café window had previously stood.

Shaking his head, Napoleon looked up. The barman had been catapulted over the police officer by the blast, his back a bloody mess of wood, metal and glass, the officer pinned to the ground, by his vast bulk . A small sea of witnesses was building to oceanic proportions, before they were swept back by the arrival of both police and fire vehicles. Napoleon glanced at Illya, who was face down on the pavement, not moving. There was no sign of injury from the blast, so Napoleon risked turning him over.

'Yes, I am alive, but next time try to propel me towards something a little less hard.'

Illya rolled back and crouched up onto his knees, brushing an assortment of gravel and dirt off his face, which was now starting to bleed rather profusely from a rather unpleasant looking graze covering one of his cheeks, extending to his nose and forehead, as well as from a deeper cut just below his hairline. Napoleon could see a rather swarthy looking paramedic heading in their direction who immediately stopped and crouched down in front of them, picking up the communicator between her fingers as if it were likely to explode as well.

'What the . .'

'Ah, my pen. I was beginning to worry that Aunt Sibyl's present had been lost. I think you'll find that my friend here could use a little attention.'

He turned away and edged round the side of the ambulance parked near what had been the café, keeping Illya and the paramedic in his sight. Kuryakin had sustained a number of other fairly minor injuries to his legs from Napoleon's flying shove, mainly due to the fact that he was wearing shorts, but Napoleon reasoned that it could have been very much worse for both of them. He opened the communicator and waited, hoping that it hadn't been damaged in the catastrophe outside the café.

'Open Channel M. Emergency medical pick-up required code six, outside the Purple Haze café in the Village. Yeah, that's the one, or it was.'

'Napoleon?' It's Nicole. Are you OK?' There was a very slight pause before she said, 'that code six; it's not . . .'

'No, he's more or less in one piece; a few cuts and grazes and a dent to his dignity, that's all.' Illya now seemed to be in a polite altercation with the paramedic, who had returned from the ambulance brandishing a very large, very sticky roll of bandage and was gesticulating to her tight-lipped patient to submit to her attentions.

'Illya' he shouted, 'let her do her job'.

'Have you ever had this wrapped round your head? It cannot be removed without extreme suffering, Napoleon.' Napoleon groaned, as Nicole's voice continued, drowning out Illya's protests.

'Nicole, listen. Get through to Brian Machin in Section Three and tell him to close down Pharmacy and erect a security barrier. No-one, I repeat no-one is to go in there, touch or remove anything at all. Understand? I'll be in shortly with the walking wounded, so he can meet me there, after I've delivered Mr Kuryakin to Medical. Understand?'

'Absolutely. And tell Illya, I'll come up and help him with the bandage.'

Napoleon grimaced into the communicator and snapped it closed. He remembered now. Nicole, a seriously pretty redhead with seriously kissable lips, had been in typing when Kuryakin married, and was still in mourning. He remembered her as part of a disturbingly large group of girls huddled at the back of church, handkerchiefs very much in evidence. Luckily Tess had always seen the funny side of her husband's attractiveness to other UNCLE employees. He counted himself fortunate that his own wedding had taken place in England, minus a similar group of female admirers. He felt sure that Josefina, unlike her sister, wouldn't have been so amused.

He wandered back to Illya, now sporting a very large bandage and a matching scowl.

'Thank you for your support, Napoleon. That absurd woman masquerading as a paramedic seems to have mistaken me for an Egyptian mummy' he moaned.

'You can't see it. The cut on your forehead was quite bad.' Napoleon patted the miserable looking Russian on the shoulder. 'Don't worry, Medical will cut it all off when you get there.'

'Exactly, and they'll take half my hair with it.'

'Ah, vanity, thy name is Kuryakin.' Illya looked up at him incredulously before being dragged away towards the waiting ambulance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'Madame Kuryakina?' Therese opened her eyes slowly, knowing immediately that only someone from Eastern Europe would address her in that way. She had been dozing midway between being woken and washed like a child at some absurd hour and her breakfast arriving, which she had already been warned by a nurse looking exactly like her PE teacher at school, had to be consumed in its entirety or dire consequences would follow.

'Who wants to know?' she said laconically, taking in her visitor through half-closed eyes, an extremely athletic looking woman with darkish blonde hair, vivid grey-blue eyes and a light grey suit that emphasised her large breasts to perfection. Perhaps this woman was going to be meting out the 'dire consequences' the nurse had hinted at, although Therese couldn't think what form these might take.

'May I introduce myself; my name is Anya Arshavina. I'm a former colleague of your husband.'

Therese swivelled her head very slightly. _Anya_. She opened her eyes fully, giving the blonde a prolonged stare before she continued,

'From what I heard, you were more than just a colleague, _comrade_.' She held the other woman's barely suppressed stare for as long as she could before her mouth twitched and she began to smile.

'Well, I did try to remind him of his duty as a Soviet citizen, but his head was filled with lewd thoughts of another woman' Anya replied, her eyes sparkling. There was a brief pause before they both began to laugh, quietly at first, and then more loudly until Therese had to bury her face into the pillow to stop herself snorting.

Afterwards, Therese couldn't really explain why they had felt so comfortable with each other. She couldn't think that Anya was like any friend she had had in the past, with the exception of Sabi, whose memory brought a stab of pain to Therese's chest as soon as she thought of her. She knew nothing about Anya from Illya; it was Pascale who had been her informant, who had shared her memories of the woman who had cared for the little girl who had lost her mother and only just found her father. Therese was used to unexplained happenings in her life since she had first heard the word UNCLE, so she waited, knowing that at some point it would be explained to her why Anya was now lying next to her on her bed giggling like a schoolgirl about the man whose life they had both shared, to a greater or lesser degree.

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud noise in the corridor outside. The door to Therese's room had been left ajar by the last nurse who had exited rapidly after finding the two women lying together on the bed talking in Russian, and so they were witnesses to the scene outside as another Russian, leaning on the counter of the Nurses' reception area, engaged in a head to head argument with one of the nurses on duty.

'Oh God, look at him' Therese sighed, pushing herself upright, 'he looks like the invisible man.'

'But I can see him clearly'. Therese sighed again, then put two fingers in her mouth and whistled, the sound bringing the argument to an immediate halt as the two protagonists turned simultaneously towards her.

'If you bring him in here, we'll distract him while you work.' Therese could see the nurse begin to grin behind the Russian's back as he limped towards them, entered the room, and threw himself backwards onto the empty bed. There were a few moments silence before he said, his eyes closed,

'Good morning, Anya. I see you have already met my wife.'

'Good morning Illya Nikovetch. And I can see that nothing has changed since we last met. You are still as reckless as ever.'

Illya sighed.

'Illya, you've only been home a day and you are already covered in bandages. What is going on?' Illya opened his eyes and turned towards his wife. Considering what had happened to her, she looked remarkably cheerful, the bandage round her head, which he noted was obviously not the sticky variety, had been replaced by a much smaller one on her forehead, and she looked a little more robust than she had appeared only hours before.

'I'm sorry, there was an explosion at the Purple Haze and Napoleon decided to practise his push and save technique on me.'

'The Purple Haze? Is fat Joe alright?' Illya sighed again and sat up slowly.

'Fat Joe and Napoleon fortunately had something soft to land on. The Police officer and I were less lucky. He had a few bits of the café in his back, but I think he'll survive. I wouldn't like to say how well the police officer is doing.' Therese started to laugh as the nurse came in with a trolley, Anya getting off the bed and retreating to the chair beyond it. Illya glanced at the trolley, his face beneath the bandages fixed into a sullen stare as the nurse picked up a pair of scissors from the top shelf.

'Now, Mr Kuryakin, where shall we start, legs or head?'

xxxxxx

'Can anyone come to the party, or are only comrades invited?' Napoleon lounged against the doorway, taking in the scene. Kuryakin, now _sans_ sticky bandages, looked relatively human, although Napoleon could see that the graze was now framing a nicely developing black eye, set off by a narrow bandage covering his forehead above it. He was sitting up rubbing his head, as Anya jumped up from her chair and came across towards Napoleon.

'Napoleon. You are looking so well! I hardly recognised you. But what have you been doing to my Illyusha? Look at him!' She embraced Napoleon in the Russian fashion and then sat on Illya's bed.

'We have a meeting with Waverly at eleven if you remember' Napoleon said. 'Fernando is bringing in some clothes for you, Illya.'

'Fernando!' Anya burst in, 'I would love to see him again. So handsome, so strong!' Illya's face had a pained expression on it as he swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He walked over to Therese's bed and crouched down beside her with a little difficulty.

'I think we need to talk before the meeting. I'm sure Napoleon and Fernando can entertain Anya in the meantime.'

'Alright.' She pulled his head towards her a little, wincing at the damage to his face as he came close. 'Illya, go in and make sure Pablo is alright' she murmured, before kissing him and lying back on the pillow. He could see that something had entered her mind, something that disturbed her.

'Of course. I'll be back shortly. . .' He staggered to his feet, in time to see Fernando McCaffery appear at the door, a large carrier bag in his hand.

'Fernando, there's someone here who's just dying to meet you.' Napoleon took charge of the bag as Fernando, glancing at the occupant of the bed with concern, advanced into the room.

'Sis, what's . . . Anya?' Anya leapt from her chair and embraced him, running her hand through his short curly hair before standing back from him slightly.

'Fernando! Still so handsome and not married yet like these two' she said dramatically, indicating Illya and Napoleon with a flourish of her hand.

'Er no, though we are . . I mean when Frankie's . .'

'When Frankie's what?' came a rather cold voice from behind him, as he stared at his brother in law's rather severe expression.

'Illya, you're not Frankie's father, so let him alone' Tess intervened, patting the bed for her brother to come and sit next to her. 'Now, Nurse PE Instructor says you can clean yourself up in the bathroom next door, but you're not to get that bandage on your head wet, so go.' Illya sighed, grabbing the bag and ignoring Napoleon's smirking face, before pushing past him out of the room.

'OK children, I think the bandaged ones need to commune together, so you can introduce the Lieutenant Colonel here to the delights of the Commissary, which should give the office gossips plenty to talk about for the next few weeks, while I pay a little visit down to the Pharmacy' Napoleon said, taking Anya's arm.

'By the way, sis, Daisy on the switchboard told me that Fat Joe is out of danger.'

'Gee, this guy is getting more sympathy than a widow at the average wake' Napoleon muttered, waving faintly at Therese before escorting Anya out of the room, Fernando ambling along behind them as they headed for the lifts.

Therese lay back onto the pillows, her face assuming a wholly more serious expression. She could hear water running into a bath in the adjacent room, followed by the sloshing sound of someone getting in and obviously enjoying being there. It was hard not to smile, but even Illya's proximity was not enough to lift the darkness of her mood. A cold shudder embraced her. She could hear her grandmother's voice when she was a child, when she had shuddered at something now long forgotten, saying 'Somebody walked on your grave, Tessy?' She turned on her side, examining the arm where the IV drip had been inserted.

_It had been pitch dark in the room, only the small square window in the door emitting a kind of dull light from the Nurses' station beyond. She had been lying on her side then too, her mind filled with a gradual dawning of what had happened at the top of that dark staircase._

_They had been lighting a candle, the face of the statue lit up by its gentle light, her arm round the boy's shoulder as his breathing returned to normal. She had sent him up the stairs for music that was kept in large cupboards along the barely used balcony, the spaces either side a favourite hiding place for bored children on school visits. He didn't appear to be scared of the dark, said that he wasn't, until she had heard his strangled scream, and had rushed up, suddenly aware of her own body, of what she had tried to ignore for too long. She had turned instinctively towards him, had seen him standing there, his face and body transfixed into a silent, rigid image of terror before her eyes. It was only then that she had turned; knowing that she had to understand what it was that had petrified her child._

_She recognised what it was immediately, but not before she had been gripped by a familiar hand, the power of the grasp immobilising her as she forced herself to gaze into familiar eyes, to control the scream which was forcing itself out of her mouth. _

'_You may think you have eluded me, but for you there is no escape, not now.'_

_She felt herself pulled violently forwards, lips forcing themselves onto hers, until she had wrenched herself away, as the boy screamed again and she fell, her hands flailing for something to stop her body from careering down. She felt the warmth between her legs as she lost balance, the darkness of the stairway replaced by a greater, longer darkness._

_Much later, when light had returned, it was only when they had all left she realised what had happened, and it was then she knew that someone was in the room with her again. For some reason she remained still, a feeling of inevitability robbing her of any reaction to the grasping of her arm and the coldness within it. She waited for a few moments, imagining the moment when her life would be over, when all independent thought would be over. As she heard a click and the voice begin, she realised that she had thoughts, and they were her own._

'_Therese, when you hear my voice again, you will come to me. Do you understand?'_

'_I understand' she said._

She jumped when he touched her, unable to adjust her expression before he had read it.

'_Qu'est-ce c'est que ca, cherie? _

'_Rien, c'est rien.'_

Illya stared at her, his damaged face examining hers for an explanation of the fear that he saw filling it. He threw down the towel he was holding and clambered onto the bed beside her, pulling down the pillows so that they lay together closely, face to face. He had left his suit jacket and holster on the chair, and Tess smelt a kind of antiseptic cleanness about him as he lay there.

'Pablo . . .'

'is expected to regain consciousness anytime.' Therese closed her eyes, knowing what he would say next. 'Tess, I need to know . . .'

'What happened last night?' Her eyes flickered open again, held by the intense gaze of blue eyes next to her.

'It's as I said, Illya. Nothing. I can't remember anything.'

xxxxxxx

Napoleon waited as the Section Three agent overrode the security control on the door and it slid back to allow him entry. Brian Machin followed him through, the door clunking shut behind them as they stared at the series of connecting rooms making up the Pharmacy.

'Have you looked round yet?' Napoleon asked. Machin, a tall rangy American with a flat top haircut which always elicited a particularly gruesome scowl from his partner, shook his head.

'Nope. I just shut the place off and waited for you to show up' he said, leaning against a desk upon which stood a large computer terminal and two empty china cups and saucers.

Machin turned round and clicked something at the back of the terminal, the screen flickering into life immediately.

'This drug she talked about, it wasn't listed on here, you say?'

'Apparently not, but we'd better check. Try Kuryakin, Therese, then Kuryakin, Pablo' he said. Machin typed rapidly on the keyboard, both men staring at the screen as the names appeared.

'Nope, nada. The boy's entry is totally blank, and look, the gorgeous Mrs K has only had a . . . ' Machin leaned forward, his thick framed glasses nearly touching the screen . He glanced at Napoleon, before returning his gaze to the screen.

'Er, is that test what I think it is?' Napoleon sighed, and spun Machin round towards him.

'If I were you, I'd keep that information to yourself, until you hear from me that he wants it public, OK?' Machin gave a low whistle under his breath and began to grin.

'Son of a gun' he said, switching off the computer.

As he walked off towards the larger room, Napoleon noticed the cups.

'Brian, do you have the rota?' Machin came back into the office and pointed to a notice board on the wall of the wall opposite, behind a table with a coffee machine and assorted containers, a few cups piled up beside them. He ran his finger down the list for the previous day. It was obvious that only one pharmacist was on duty at night. The coffee machine still contained about half its contents. Napoleon looked at it, and then glanced back at the two cups.

'Brian, can you check the communication records for last night from here' he said. Machin immediately picked up the phone on the wall in the corner, whilst Napoleon systematically searched the contents of the desk, and then walked through into the larger room. He ran his hand through his hair at the sight of it. A seemingly endless set of shelves and cupboards contained a vast array of drugs, in all forms; powders, phials, tablets, bottles, sachets, every possible way of containing solids, liquids and gases. He cringed slightly at the packets of needles and syringes, before glancing into the pharmacy boxes, their contents an equally confusing array of boxes and bottles.

'Napoleon.' Solo walked back into the office, as Machin straightened after finishing writing something on a piece of paper. He handed it to Napoleon, his neat handwriting listing two entries with the times written by them. At the bottom of the list his own name, and above that only one other call.

'It appears that whoever she shared a coffee with last night came from Medical' he said. He turned towards the door. 'Get me the off-duty for all staff in Medical, Brian, and I don't want anybody there to know, right?'

'Right. And I'll keep that other news under my hat too, OK?' Napoleon sighed.

'Right. Otherwise both our lives might not be worth living anytime soon' he said.

xxxxxxxx

By the time he'd reached Waverly's office, it was nearly ten past eleven, his watch telling him that he would need a good excuse to explain his lateness. Luckily, he had the off-duty rota for Medical now in his inside pocket. However, his mind was still far from understanding how Miranda Jones' death connected to the incident in the church, and the plans for worldwide domination in the mind of Lee-Hua Bolt.

Fernando had disappeared, leaving Anya chatting companionably to Waverly at the table while Kuryakin stared out of the window, a worryingly haunted expression on his face. Napoleon sidled over to him, amazed to provoke a small start of surprise as he put his hand on the Russian's shoulder.

'Something else wrong?' Illya sighed. The damage to his face was causing his eye to partially close, and he looked tired.

'Hm. Possibly.' A rather obvious clearing of the throat alerted them of Waverly's intention to start the meeting. Illya moved away, heading towards his normal seat near Waverly, Napoleon following him, noticing the anxiety in the set of his shoulders under the dark grey suit.

The wall opposite the window had been re-fitted with a larger screen as part of the improvements to the office instigated by Lisa Rogers, the hemispherical globe that had covered the round table superceded by a larger, more interactive world map on the wall. A number of islands scattered throughout the continents were lit up, as well as other places which appeared to be well away from any major centres of population. Napoleon swung into the chair next to Illya's, Anya sitting the other side of Waverly. She smiled confidently at Napoleon, before indicating with a subtle expression that she was concerned about the man next to him. Unlike his usual self, Kuryakin had not even bothered to open the file in front of him, never mind put on his glasses. He continued to stare vacantly in front of him, seemingly oblivious to anyone or anything else in the room.

Napoleon leaned slightly towards Illya and dug him in the ribs, evoking another slightly startled reaction.

'Mr Kuryakin, if you are not feeling well, we can postpone the meeting, at least for a short while' Waverly said suddenly, evoking an immediate response from the Russian.

'No. I am fine, er, thank you, sir' Illya replied, colouring slightly, before rapidly producing his glasses and grabbing the file. Waverly stared at him, before shrugging his shoulders and turning towards the map on the wall.

'Well, gentlemen, it seems hardly necessary to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina to you, but I am hoping that the information her superiors have allowed her to share with us may help us to untangle this mess' Waverly began, vaguely gesticulating towards the map.

'Oh please, call me Anya' Anya replied, reaching down into her briefcase and drawing out three small folders with the GRU insignia on the front. She rose from her seat and placed a copy in front of each of the men, imperceptibly touching Illya as she leaned forward. Walking away from the table towards the map, she waited for them to open the folders before beginning to talk.

'As you know, one of the experimental areas used to try out this virus was in a remote area of Siberia' she began, assuming a rather more formal demeanour than the rather relaxed one she had previously adopted round the table. 'The agent bringing the virus to Siberia travelled on the Trans-Siberian Express from Riga, in fact we know he was Estonian from his passport and from the evidence of the men he had played with on the train returning from Siberia.'

'Played with?' Illya interrupted, frowning.

'Played cards with, Illya Nikovetch', Anya replied, smiling. 'He was a poker player, and, as you know Illya, gambling on trains is not permitted in the Soviet Union. However, as you also know, it goes on, and we wouldn't have discovered it, had not the train stopped at Gorky. There, it seemed, a large amount of vodka was brought on board. The gambling party became noisy and disruptive, and the police became involved. Unfortunately, our man eluded us and managed to leave the train, but not before he had left a number of important pieces of evidence behind.'

She reached over for the remote control operating the screen, flicking a switch to show a number of items laid out on a table.

'The gambling party used roubles to play with of course, but our man, being both unsuccessful and desperate, used other currency as well, including Estonian of course, but also these Norwegian Kroner.' Napoleon and Illya exchanged glances.

'So you think he could have come from Norway?'

'Yes, Napoleon, I think it's worth looking at' Anya replied.

'Norway would certainly offer no end of fairly remote places to build a factory' Illya said, 'and there are numerous inlets from the sea.'

'Exactly.' Anya switched to another set of images, this time showing what appeared to be the contents of the agent's wallet. 'The currency is interesting, but this may turn out to be equally important' she said.

The papers blown up large on the screen showed the inside of a passport, and also airline tickets, the European carrier familiar to both agents.

'So, he was coming from Norway possibly, via Riga, to Siberia, and then eventually to New York.' Napoleon said, screwing up his eyes to read the ticket.

'So what's your plan?' Napoleon murmured almost to himself, wondering why Kuryakin looked as distraught as he did. There was a brief silence in the room, before Illya spoke.

'I think this plan of hers is designed to impress; she's not interested in holding the world to ransom at the moment; she already has vast wealth at her disposal. No, she is obsessed with control; I think she's trying to impress someone to give her that control.'

The others stared at him, their faces taking in the import of his words.

'And I presume you are thinking that the 'someone' is an organisation well known to us? Waverly said quietly.

'Er, yes, I am, sir. Her ambitions were thwarted by us before, but I would imagine that THRUSH central is now sitting up and taking notice. These so called experiments she's carried out are only the beginning, I would guess. No doubt she will soon try to demonstrate her power to create chaos on a considerably larger scale, one where control of the virus would be much more difficult, and the capacity for panic will be far greater.'

Waverly turned towards the console behind him and yanked the receiver towards him.

'I want all the information you can find on new industrial complexes in Norway. Straightaway, thank you.' Napoleon waited until he had finished before speaking again.

'Sir, the reason I was late was because I was down in Pharmacy investigating the death of Miss Jones, as I told you earlier.' He pulled out the off-duty list from his inside pocket and laid it on the table, noticing his partner's frown. 'I did think after that party we had, that Miss Jones might be a possible suspect in my investigation of a possible Bolt mole, but I'm coming to the conclusion that if there is a mole, she's in Medical, and that last night she was in Pharmacy having a coffee with Miss Jones.'

'Well, have you worked out who she is, Mr Solo? I imagine that Mr Kuryakin here would be very relieved if you did so' Waverly said.

'Er, Josefina has compiled a list of the girls at the party and she's sure one of their names if familiar to her from somewhere. I thought perhaps that we could compare the lists . . .' Waverly leaned back to the intercom.

'Can you get hold of Mrs Solo and tell her to come down here, please' he barked, pushing it back and grabbing his pipe.

He sat back in his chair and looked at the three people round the table. It seemed almost laughable that a GRU agent was helping them with this mission, but needs must. He frowned as he surveyed Illya Kuryakin, now studying the folder in front of him. There was something worrying the boy, something more than the trauma of having his family in Medical.

'Mr Kuryakin', he began quietly, 'did you manage to speak to your wife this morning? The reaction of the Russian was palpable.

'Yes I did' he said, almost monosyllabically. 'She says that she remembers nothing, but I don't believe her.'

'Are you sure, Illyusha?' Anya said, the diminutive coming to her lips naturally as she leaned towards him.

'Quite sure. She wants to tell me but for some reason she feels she cannot, and that is what is worrying me.'

'What about Pablo? D'you think he'll be able to remember?'

'He may, Napoleon, but, contrary to what was first hoped, he's showing no signs of waking up, and no-one knows how traumatised he will be when he does so. I thought at first that Tess might be drugged again, but it's not like last time. She was definitely deliberately hiding something from me.'

Waverly stood up, and stuffed some tobacco in his pipe, the two agents knowing the routine well enough to wait for the few moments it took to start the thing into action and produce clouds of voluminous smoke in the room.

'Mr Kuryakin, it would be asking a great deal of you I know, but is there any way you feel you could obtain this information from your wife, providing she is withholding something as you say?' Napoleon frowned, glancing at the now emotionless face of his partner.

'Are you asking him to interrogate his own wife?'

'I'm afraid I am, Mr Solo, and I do not ask it lightly. What happened on that staircase seems to be a part of the puzzle and we have to know who it was who attacked Mr Kuryakin's wife and son, and why Mrs Kuryakin is refusing to reveal that information.'

The discussion was brought to a sudden halt by the door opening. Jo came in, a folder in her hand, a quizzical look directed at her husband to ascertain who the mystery guest at the table was.

'Ah Josefina' Waverly said, eliciting a smile from Napoleon, who was always amused by the old man's rather personal relationship with his wife.

'Alexander' she said, glancing round the room, and then taking a seat next to Napoleon.

'Er, Jo, this is Anya Arshavina, one of Illya's, er, colleagues from home' he said rather awkwardly.

'You mean this is _the_ Anya, the one Pascale talks about?' she said, smirking slightly. 'It's alright, keep your hair on lover, no state secrets have been revealed, just a few amusing stories about Goldilocks here.' Seemingly oblivious to the expressions round the table, she drew out the list Napoleon saw her making the other evening, now a neatly typed column of names grouped into categories.

'I presume you wanted to know about these women' she said, passing a copy of the list to Waverly. 'I've narrowed it down to the people I think would be worth looking at again, but to be honest, I can't say that any of them jumps off the page at you.' She hesitated, unconsciously chewing the end of her pencil before continuing, 'however, there's one name on that list that for some reason I feel I know from the past.'

Napoleon picked up his list from Medical.

'Sir, as I said, I wonder if we could narrow down the list by just correlating those women who came to the party and who also work in Medical.' Waverly tugged on his pipe for a few moments.

'You could, Mr Solo; that might be worth exploring.'

'I've already looked up these girls before, and nothing came up, but I'd sure like to know who was drinking coffee with Miss Jones.'

The intercom bleep interrupted the discussion. Waverly answered, resting his pipe on the rack by his seat. He listened impassively for a few moments before switching off the microphone.

'Apparently there has been a development under construction in recent months at a place called Lysebotn. I believe it's near Stavanger' Waverly said. 'Calls itself the Vanir Corporation. The chief executive is a woman, name of Freyja Pedersen. Rather a coincidence, don't you think?'

'Interesting names', Illya interrupted. 'Vanir is the collective name for the Norse fertility gods. Freyja is a warrior goddess, and the patron saint of childbirth.'

Illya looked at Napoleon and Jo, aware of a rather uncomfortable look on their faces, and suddenly wondering how he could have been so utterly self-absorbed the night before, never considering his partner's feelings, just blundering on lamenting his inability to control his own fertility. He looked sideways at Napoleon and smiled a little wistfully .

'Gentlemen, it's obvious we need to send someone to Norway soon to see if we can find a connection with Miss Bolt' Waverly said. If she is attempting something on a grand scale, then we need to know where the virus is being stored and destroy it as soon as possible before she causes a major incident. I'll get in touch with our office in Oslo and get them to send someone out there in the first place. Mr Solo, try to wrap up this business with the woman in Pharmacy and see if we can ensure Mr Kuryakin's family are safe in our care. And Mr Kuryakin, if you could persuade your wife to tell you what she knows, that might help us an awful lot.'

'And what is my assignment?' Illya said, as the others began to get up.

'I would have thought that was obvious, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly replied. 'Until Medical section assures me that you are certified for the field again, you need to concentrate on the security of your family, and establishing the cover we have created for Madame Arshavina here. If you have any spare time, I'm sure that you can find something to occupy yourself with in your laboratory.'

CHAPTER EIGHT

The apartment block was rather traditional in appearance, smaller and less modern looking than those surrounding it, yet still exuding an air of affluence that denoted its position on West 62nd Street, just a stone's throw from Central Park.

Walter Kennedy, the concierge at the desk, subconsciously stiffened as he saw the occupier of the penthouse apartment approaching down the wide steps that lead to the entrance hall and lifts.

'Good afternoon, Mr Hoang' he said, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt, handing him his post from the lockers behind the desk. Taking the letters, Hoang swept past, barely acknowledging the man. As the lift doors closed, Walter breathed again, unable to explain even to himself why the guy made him feel as if there were roaches creeping all over him.

He had glanced through the letters, noting the different countries they had come from, seeing a pattern emerging of this man's business connections. Letters from Bermuda were pretty regular, sometimes daily, the name of some fancy clinic printed on the envelope. Then there were other, plainer envelopes, containing bulkier items from major cities all round the world. And finally the parcels and packages he'd had to sign for, all coming from some unpronounceable place in Norway. Walter had written down its name and looked it up in a large gazetteer he often consulted in his local library on his day off. On the map it seemed a tiny, insignificant place, stuck away amongst the jagged inlets which made up the Norwegian coast.

Walter shrugged as the doors slid together silently behind Clark Hoang. He looked at his watch, estimating that it wouldn't be long before the blonde he seemed to be hooked up with would appear, giving Walter her usual sweet smile before taking the lift up to the penthouse apartment. For the life of him, he couldn't understand what she saw in the guy, except of course his money, which Walter was pretty sure he had in spades. Without thinking, he shoved a letter, which seemed to have come adrift from the others, into his jacket pocket, and went through to fetch his coat, as the familiar feet of the relief porter appeared at the top of the steps.

xxxxxxxx

Yvonne took the martini and watched Clark Hoang's assistant disappear out of the room, closing the door behind him with a heavy clunk. She looked round, finding the lack of personal effects in the room disturbing. It was largely monochrome, the white walls and black leather sofas relieved only by a series of photographs on the wall, architectural compositions of New York buildings, the black and white film perfectly capturing the contrast of light and shadow in their forms. She got up and studied the first one in the group, a picture of the Chrysler Building. For some reason, she had never noticed the initials carefully inscribed in the corner of each photograph; TMK.

'She is a gifted photographer. It's a pity she wastes her time on less stimulating activities.'

Yvonne tried not to flinch as she felt Hoang's presence by her side. For a moment, she failed to connect the comment to the initials until suddenly the image of the name written on a medical chart flashed into her memory. She put her hand to her mouth, suppressing a gasp.

'I . . I didn't know she did that. I guess I just thought she was a housewife.' Hoang sniffed slightly, and moved away.

'Oh she's a lot more than that, Yvonne. Or she could be. The trouble with Therese McCaffery is that she is living with the delusion that love conquers all.'

'Oh but she does love her husband' she blurted out, 'you should see them. . .'

Yvonne was suddenly aware of Hoang's face as he turned towards her. The contrasting light of the photographs seemed reflected in the glittering eyes, almost black against the sallow skin in the lengthening shadows of the room.

'Illya Kuryakin took her from me' he said slowly, turning away again and staring out of the window, 'but I will take back what is mine, and it will be mine permanently. And this time I will take everything that he holds precious as well. '

He put his glass down on the table by the window, picking up a file which had been left there.

'It's a pity that woman in your Pharmacy department decided to poke her nose in to matters which didn't concern her' he continued. 'I presume that you followed my directions?'

'Yes' Yvonne said flatly. 'Miranda called me about it, but she said she'd not touched it, and it was there when the boxes came up. I administered it, as you said.'

'And the tape? Tell me exactly what happened.'

'I played the tape. She was definitely asleep, but when she heard your voice she sort of stiffened, and then replied 'I understand'. I heard it clearly, Clark.' Hoang smiled imperceptibly.

'Well, that is that. There is only one more instruction for you to carry out, my dear Yvonne.' Yvonne groaned inwardly, trying to push the thought of her connection with Miranda Jones' death from her mind. Hoang seemed to know everything that was going on in Medical without her telling him, leading her to the obvious conclusion that she was not the only employee in that department with a connection to the person in front of her. She tried to conjure up the image of her daughter, making the picture of the smiling little girl efface the memory of Miranda and of Therese Kuryakin. But at once Fern's face disappeared, and all she could think of was the image she had seen as she looked through the tiny window of Therese Kuryakin's room in Medical; two people on the bed, his blond head pressed against her dark abundant curls. She had seen his lips moving, whispering something into her ear, and Yvonne hadn't needed to hear what he was saying. The language of their bodies had been enough to tell her. She bit her lip and looked up, forcing them out of her mind.

'What is it?'.

'I want you to take good care of Therese, Yvonne. She needs to recover from her unfortunate slip on the stairs. Make an effort to get close to her while she's in Medical, won't you? Let me know when she's ready to be discharged and I'll inform you of your task.'

Hoang opened the file, his face frowning at its contents. He pressed a small button underneath the table, instantly summoning Alan Page, who appeared at the door, giving Yvonne a brittle smile.

'It appears that the invitation I was expecting hasn't materialised yet' he said, closing the file and glancing at the figure in the doorway. 'Perhaps you could look into it?' He sniffed again, throwing the file down on the sofa. 'Now, I have a lot of work to do. Page will see you out.'

As the doors of the lift closed, Yvonne was aware of a figure walking past, coming from the stairs, but her desire to escape the place overrode her interest in whoever Hoang's next victim might be.

Hoang heard the door open behind him and turned.

'Ah, Captain Arshavin. Drink?


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 9

The air felt hot and chokingly oppressive, the pavement outside Del Floria's radiating heat up Illya's body as he leaned forward slightly towards the driver, before opening the door and sinking gratefully onto the back seat. He could see Anya's face in the cab's front mirror as it pulled away from the kerb, her confused expression interrupted by Napoleon's arm as he propelled her in the opposite direction.

Napoleon had guessed his partner's mood after the meeting, interpreting Illya's cold glare and monosyllabic replies correctly as the need to go home and be with his family. In the cab, not for the first time Illya thanked an unseen power for his partner and his uncanny ability to guess the Russian's mood and intentions. He had promised Therese to bring the children in that afternoon, and he would keep to his promise. For now, he needed time to ponder why Anya Arshavina had so conveniently appeared with such apparently compelling evidence, before she was allowed to involve herself more intimately with his family.

'I'm sure your husband will be waiting for you' he had said rather coldly to her after the meeting. 'I can manage until Monday; Napoleon will give you the address.'

The midday traffic jam impeded their progress downtown, enabling Illya's communicator to go off as he sat disconsolately staring at a hoarding on the 34th street junction.

'I dispatched your new au pair to the Russian Embassy' Napoleon said. 'Anything else I can do?'

'Thank you Napoleon. We need to talk later, I just wanted . . .'

'Yeah. I know. I'm taking my two out to lunch, so I'll catch you later this afternoon.' There was a momentary pause before he said, 'what time is your medical?'

'Nine o'clock. Perhaps I'll call on her tomorrow afternoon and discuss the arrangements.'

'You do that. I'm going to go down to Pharmacy again on Monday, so I'll catch you after Medical have finished with you.'

'Mm. I'm going to have to eat for America all weekend if I'm to have any hope of

getting certified.' Napoleon smiled at the communicator.

'Well I think you'll find that news of your situation has travelled fast in the Village.' Illya stared at the communicator before shrugging his shoulders and signing off.

He could see that the front door of his house was wide open as the cab approached. Thrusting a bill into the cab driver's hand, he unholstered his gun and held it inside his jacket as he climbed the steps. In the corridor, there were several giant baskets filled with an assortment of clothes and bed linen wedged against the armoire. He was still staring at the baskets when a hand gripped his shoulder. He spun round, bringing the gun up to face his attacker.

'Whoa, don't shoot Mr K. I'm just here for the laundry.'

Frank filled the doorway behind him, his arms up and his face a picture of alarm at the sight of the gun pointing in his direction. Illya sighed and holstered his gun.

'I'm sorry, when I saw the door was open . . .'

There was a reverberating crash from the kitchen below followed by high-pitched laughter and then screaming coming from what appeared to be the bathroom upstairs. Illya left Frank to the laundry baskets and made his way downstairs. A sight reminiscent of Friday lunchtime in the UNCLE commissary met his eyes as he counted at least five female members of Frank's family engaged in various cooking activities, the women momentarily looking up from their work, smiling, and then continuing, accompanying their activity with rapid Italian spoken at a decibel level loud enough to be heard across the road.

Illya backed out of the kitchen and headed back up the stairs, as two other women whom he knew were Ukrainian friends of his mother, emerged from the sitting room armed with dusters and a large vacuum cleaner. Excusing himself in Ukrainian he climbed the stairs to the first floor.

He followed the sound of a massive splash and peered through a dense amount of steam into the bathroom. The three smallest Kuryakins were engaged in what looked like a combined attempt to see how much water they could empty out of the bath onto the floor by rocking forwards and backwards together, their screams accompanying each tidal wave of water flowing over the end of the bath towards their uncle Fernando, who appeared to be encouraging them in their experiment.

'_Qu'est ce que se passe?' _ There was a combined scream from the children, followed by a concerted effort by all of them to clamber out of the bath towards him. They were on him before he could move; their slippery bodies impossible to get hold of as they writhed round him, until Fernando lobbed several towels over their heads towards Illya.

'What is going on here?' he managed to say again after they had cocooned all three children and carried them into the twins' bedroom.

'Word on the street' Fernando said mysteriously, between attempts to pin Valentin down on the bed to put his clothes on. 'They just appeared this morning, and you don't mess with Frank's Rita, do you? They should use her elbows as a secret weapon.'

There was a slight gasp from the door before Illya was aware of two long legs in front of him as he attempted to dry Misha's gyrating body.

'Oh papa, your face!' Pascale came up close, her expression making him feel like a naughty schoolboy sent to the headteacher.

'It's nothing, really. I just fell over.'

'No you didn't, Papa. Mr Green at the bagel shop says you were there when Monsieur Fat Joe was hurt.' Immediately the twins started a joint mantra, _'Fat Joe, Fat Joe'_, while Tasiya pushed her way towards him and began to touch his eye with one pudgy finger.

'Papa looks like a pirate' she said knowingly, giving Illya a kiss, and starting the twins off on what sounded like 'parrot' again and again.

'Oh gee, sorry I didn't realise . . .' Frankie appeared at the door, laden with clothes. She deftly extricated Misha from Illya and began to dress him with a speed which Illya couldn't hope to come near. He staggered to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her bring his children into some sort of order in front of his eyes. A feeling of near total exhaustion swept through him, willing him to collapse on Valya's bed and doze for a century. He suddenly realised that he had not slept properly for about four days, the last twenty four hours being the final chapter of months of lonely, painful days and broken nights. Now his longed for reunion with Therese had been brutally cut short; only a few snatched afternoon hours had been shared before the events of the previous evening had once again separated them.

'Illya, wait' Frankie said, looking worriedly towards Fernando. 'Have something to eat and then sleep. There's time. We'll take the children to see Tess this afternoon and you can come this evening.' He looked at them both, Fernando holding the twin boys and Frankie with her arm round Tasiya's waist. He remembered his sharp words to Fernando and wondered why he had been so censorious. Seeing them together made him aware of how much he needed Therese, and how much she had given him. Inexplicably, tears forced themselves into his eyes and were forced back again.

'Thank you . . both of you . . for everything' he stammered, before wearily rising and making his way downstairs.

xxxxxxxx

The apartment was bathed with sunshine, reminding Anya of childhood days on holiday in Yalta, the sun there similarly warming her body as she dashed across the beach and threw herself into the coolness of the Black Sea waves.

'Repeat to me again exactly what Waverly said' she heard her husband say from the desk at the other end of the room, the Russian words sounding strangely incongruous in this sunny, New York apartment. She turned from the window and leaned against the glass, hoping to continue feeling the warmth which her husband's tone was rapidly beginning to drain away.

'I told you. They are investigating the plant in Norway from their office in Oslo first. If it looks promising, no doubt they will send people from here.'

'Solo and Kuryakin? They are their 'top' agents, are they not? He said the words with a derisory tone, his rather narrow top lip curling at the second name.

'I suppose so. Illya is not fit for duty at the moment; he has to have a medical tomorrow. He has had a difficult few months.'

Sergei Arshavin got up from his desk and joined her at the window.

'I hope you're not allowing your feelings for him to cloud your judgement' he said, grasping her chin with his hand, 'or your duty to the Soviet State, from which you owe your present, favoured position.'

'I don't have 'feelings' for him, Sergei, as I have made it clear to you before. And I don't need you or any other _apparachnik_ of our glorious state to remind me of my duty.' She broke away from his hold and stood apart, looking out of the other window.

'If you say so, Anya. He is clearly considering whether to trust you or not, judging from his reluctance to allow you into his home' he replied, an unpleasant sneer drifting across his features as he stared across the room at his wife.

Anya sighed and turned to look out of the window again.

'He will accept me. And his wife is easily biddable.' She felt a twinge of discomfort as she said the words. Lying usually came easily to her; it was part of her success at her chosen profession. This lie felt different somehow. She had felt a kinship with Kuryakin's wife from their first moments together, despite telling herself repeatedly that the woman would turn out to be a simpering, pampered westerner. In her heart she had known that Therese Kuryakin would be special, and she had envied her.

'Sergei, how did you come by the information about Norway so easily? It appears that this lead is the only one they have so far, apart from something in Greece which was destroyed before they could use it.'

'That is no concern of yours, Anya. You have your orders, and they only concern your former boyfriend and his daughter. Concentrate on your mission, and that alone. You are sure that the Kuryakin girl is as biddable as her step-mother appears to be?'

_Da. _She will trust me, and when she understands where her future lays, she will make a fine Soviet citizen.'

'Well, it seems that her father is about to pay us a visit.' Anya looked down as Illya Kuryakin ran up the steps to the apartment block and rang the bell. He looked less tired than he had appeared the day before, his hair catching the sun as he glanced from side to side cautiously, before the door opened and he disappeared inside.

Anya forced herself to remain calm, not wanting to give her husband any reason to think she felt any more than passing interest in this man she had thought of week in week out since he had floated out of her life two years before. She had destroyed anything that reminded her of him, certain that her duty to her beloved country and her marriage would fill the void that he had left in her life. She realised as soon as those eyes regarded her the morning before that it had all been pointless; she loved him now as much, if not more than she had loved him then. Except that now she was about to betray him like the cold-blooded Soviet operative she felt she had become.

She stayed rooted to the spot at the window as she heard the door open and Sergei begin to speak.

'Anya, we have a visitor. Do make yourself comfortable, Dr Kuryakin.'

She turned, praying to a god she didn't believe in to help her not betray her emotions.

'Illya, you look much better. Are your family managing in the absence of your wife?' Illya stared at her, wondering why she was being so formal.

'Yes, they are coping. We have many friends in our neighbourhood who are being very helpful. It appears that my wife is universally loved' he said rather sweetly, making it doubly hard for Anya not to agree with him.

'Yes, she appears quite popular within your organisation too' she replied, receiving another quizzical look from Kuryakin.

Illya glanced round the room, taking in its contents and also the person of Sergei Gregorovitch Arshavin. If he'd been asked to guess at what sort of husband Anya would have chosen, this man would have come far from the top of his list. He was physically quite attractive, taller and broader than Illya, with dark hair and eyes, in fact Illya reflected that he was very different indeed to his own appearance. But his physique was unimportant; it was his manner that disturbed Illya and saddened him too. He seemed remote from the lovely woman standing by the window, unaffected by her, while she seemed only too affected by his emotionless attitude. The enthusiastic, exuberant Anya silenced by the chilling aura of the man standing by the desk.

'I apologise for not ringing beforehand' he began; 'I, er, thought I'd just drop by and discuss a few domestic arrangements with you before tomorrow, now that Therese has given me her instructions.' He smiled, forcing her to look away momentarily, in case she should be betrayed by that simple, disarming look.

'Yes, I imagine your family make many demands on your life' Arshavin interrupted pompously. 'Anya and I have decided that children are a luxury which in our position, we cannot afford to indulge in.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way' Illya replied, raising his eyebrows fractionally. 'I used to think like that until I met my wife. Now, I couldn't imagine life without them all.' He lowered his gaze, almost murmuring 'but she is unique.'

Anya forced herself to come and sit down opposite him on the two rather plush sofas facing each other across a delicate silk rug of ancient, intricate design. His comments had made her feel as if she had been wounded by something of her own making which was now plunging itself into her heart and turning round and round within it.

'Anya, are you feeling alright' he asked softly, as Arshavin lurked in the background behind them.

'Of course' she said brusquely, before leaning down and searching for the notebook and pen she kept in the plain leather bag by her side. Illya felt in his jacket and drew out a couple of thin sheets of paper, Therese's neat italic writing on them inviting a rueful smile to his lips. He had last held them when he deposited them on the stand by her bed, before engaging in some surreptitious love-making only curtailed by a loud 'excuse me' from the night nurse standing holding the door open for him to leave.

'I'll leave these with you. I think it's mainly little things to do with the children; um, their favourite food and, er toys and things. Of course, I'll be there some of the time to help you, as they can be a little wearing at times, particularly the twins' he said, smiling again. Anya noticed suddenly, how much he had smiled in the last few minutes.

'I am sure I can handle them. I am looking forward to seeing Polina, Illya. Is she well?' She was aware of Sergei's sudden interest in the conversation, as he looked up from a copy of _Pravda_ that he was pretending to read in the corner of the room.

'Yes, she is very well. She took a while to adjust to us and her new country, as I did of course, but she is fine now and doing very well at school.'

'I hope that you have not neglected to preserve our cultural traditions in your _new_ country' Arshavin interposed harshly from behind his newspaper.

'Of course not. All the children speak Russian, to a greater or lesser degree of course. Polina and Anastasiya speak a lot of Russian together and she is teaching Tasiya a lot of our history and culture as well.' Illya frowned, wondering why he had started to call Pascale by the name she'd been given in Gorky, a name he associated with her near death at the hands of the KGB and was usually very reluctant to use.

'Good. You never know when knowledge like that will come in useful' Arshavin said flatly.

Illya got up, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in this room with these two people. He hurriedly wrote down his address for Anya, fixing a time when he hoped to be at home the next day. As the door shut behind him, he felt a sense of huge relief, glad to have the warmth of the sun on his face again, and the chill of the apartment behind him out of his blood. Shuddering imperceptibly, he ran down the steps and flung himself into the first available cab going downtown.

CHAPTER TEN

Napoleon whistled and good-humouredly kicked an imaginary object against the steel walls of the corridor as he neared Pharmacy. Despite having got no further in figuring out who was responsible for Miranda Jones' death, he felt rather optimistic that, as Jo had said, something would eventually emerge from the tangled web woven, he had no doubt, by the black mind of Miss Lee-Hua Bolt. He glanced at his watch, wondering how Kuryakin was faring at the hands of the medics not far away from where he stood. He was mildly surprised that the Russian hadn't contacted him after visiting Anya Arshavina; no doubt something had happened that Illya needed to think about first before communicating it to his partner.

Brian Machin was waiting for him in the narrow reception area, a cardboard box on the counter behind him with a clipboard balanced precariously on top. Machin grabbed the clipboard as Napoleon approached and thrust it towards him.

'We opened Pharmacy again this morning; we were getting complaints from the Docs' he said, nodding his head in the direction of the Medical Unit the other end of the corridor. 'I got a print-out of any drugs prescribed in the last few days, and I thought you might want to look through these' he added, putting his hand on the box. Gingerly, Napoleon lifted up one flap of the cardboard box in front of him. He could see Miranda Jones' lab coat inside, together with a few smaller items nestling underneath. He sighed, his mood darkening. Death was an ever-present reality within Section Two, but in departments like this it was rare. He imagined his own cardboard box, and what might be inside, before hastily expunging the thought from his mind.

'Find anything interesting?'

Neither of them had heard Illya approach, Machin starting slightly, before a sloppy grin which had begun to appear on his face was wiped off by one look at Kuryakin's expression.

'I presume from the look on your face that all did not go according to plan' Napoleon said, looking up from his perusal of the box's contents.

'Hm. Those bourgeois pseudo-scientists with their weight and height charts have determined that I am under the lower percentile for 'field readiness' as they so charmingly put it' Illya fulminated, kicking his toe against the wall. I have to follow their little plan and _maybe_ I'll be allowed to do my job in the next two weeks. Two weeks!' Napoleon worked hard to remain serious, but in fact there was nothing to be done immediately until the report from Norway arrived.

'Well you can help me with this if you like' he said, conscious of Machin beginning to smile again.

'Thank you Napoleon, but I am going to my lab later to catch up with some work and wallow in my misery' Illya replied, 'and to force down some of this, I suppose.' He held up a small box of what looked like packets of some kind of powdered drink.

'_Big Boy weight gain – strawberry flavour'_ Napoleon read. There was a strangled snort from Machin as Kuryakin snatched the box back and strode off down the corridor.

'Hey, why don't we go up to the Commissary' Napoleon called after the rapidly retreating figure of his partner. 'Belinda is on and she told me last week she was waiting for you to come back and eat the black pudding.'

Illya stopped suddenly; Napoleon, even though he couldn't see his face, knew exactly what his expression would be.

'_Black pudding_?' Machin said, looking at the Russian, now lounging against the wall, studiously examining his fingernails.

'Don't ask' Napoleon replied, smiling.

xxxxxxx

'Sure you've got enough?

Illya looked down at his tray and smiled, a feeling of anticipation growing in his stomach. _Black Pudding_. He had first encountered it at a stall in a large market he had visited with Tess' parents in a town near where they lived in the North of England.

'Don't let its appearance put you off, boy' said his father in law affably, knowing already from his son in law's brief visits that he had a willing ally in his gastronomic adventures.

'I won't' Illya had said, eyeing up the large black rings hanging up, their marbled darkness leaving him guessing as to their origin.

'Congealed pig's blood' Valentine McCaffery added cheerfully, ignoring Napoleon's appalled expression. 'The traditional way is to boil it, but it's excellent fried too, as part of a full English of course.'

The full English breakfast lay in front of him now in all its glory, the slices of black pudding nestling neatly beside the three fried eggs, several rashers of bacon and an assortment of other things Napoleon didn't even want to think about.

'I'll get the coffees and ask Dolores to mix up your little drink, _big boy'_ Napoleon murmured, picking up the packet which he noticed poking out of Illya's jacket pocket.

He was picking his way back through the sea of tables when he realised that Kuryakin had been interrupted in the enjoyment of his '_full English'_. An insipid looking woman was standing by the table, a buff envelope in her hand, attempting, it appeared, to give it to the Russian. Napoleon stared at her, wondering why his famous ability to remember the name of practically every girl in UNCLE had suddenly eluded him. As he neared the table, he could see that his partner was also having the same problem.

'Lori. It's Lori Spence, Mr Kuryakin. You remember, I sutured your head wound last year?' Napoleon remembered now. And he remembered why he couldn't think of her name. To his shame, he realised it was because she was utterly forgettable. 'It's from Medical. They need your signature on the papers inside before they go up to Mr Waverly. They said you could give them to him yourself if you like' Lori continued, looking round at the relatively few people on the tables near them, a slight feeling of disappointment showing on her face, Napoleon thought. Illya frowned, and then politely put down his knife and fork and took the envelope.

'Don't you want to check the contents before I go? Lori persisted, her rather colourless eyes staring at the seated Russian agent. Illya stared at the envelope, then turned it over. It was written in longhand, his name curiously preceded by the title 'Dr' rather than the more normal 'Mr' Kuryakin which Illya himself almost always used within the walls of UNCLE. He put it down on the table and picked up the cutlery again.

'Thank you very much for taking the trouble to bring it, Miss er, Spence' he said kindly. 'I'll open it when I've finished my breakfast, if that's alright.' Lori gave him a weak smile and turned on her heel, nearly crashing into Napoleon behind her.

'Anything interesting?' Solo said, putting down the small tray with the coffee and edging the rather lurid pink drink towards Illya. The Russian continued to eat for a few moments, before picking up the envelope and stuffing it in his jacket.

'Just bean-counting' he muttered, making a terrible face as he swallowed the pink concoction. Napoleon sipped his coffee, continuing to watch his partner finish off the rest of his meal and then swig down the coffee before suddenly rising to his feet.

'I just have to sort something out in the lab, and then I'll meet you in the office' Illya said hurriedly. 'I need to discuss the whole Anya thing with you.'

'Did she turn up this morning?'

'Of course. She's taken the tribe out for the day to the beach I believe, but I arranged for Fernando and Frankie to go along too. After yesterday, I'm not sure I'm ready to hand over my family into her sole charge just yet' he said rather mysteriously. Napoleon frowned as he watched Kuryakin move away. It was typical of him to dwell on things but it sounded as if he had something serious on his mind concerning his compatriot.

The laboratory was deserted, only Illya's bench showing that someone was in the process of working on something. He snatched his lab coat from the hook on the wall and sat down on the stool in front of the bench. If he had to be confined to barracks, as he thought of it, then this was a good time he reasoned. His family needed him and he still was far from convinced that he should allow Anya Arshavina into his life again. He thought back to the events of the previous afternoon. Putting his natural antipathy to Arshavin aside, there was something about the whole episode that deeply disturbed him. He needed someone to lay his thoughts in front of, and he knew who that person was.

Laying his lab coat on the bench, Illya removed his jacket. The lab felt almost as airless and stuffy as the atmosphere in the street, and he could feel beads of sweat already beginning to form on his forehead. As he went to hang it up on the hook, he remembered the envelope. He retrieved it from inside the jacket and sat down on the bench staring at it. Sighing again, he ripped it open and pulled out the sheet of paper folded up inside, releasing a tiny, stamp-sized rectangle of fabric, which fluttered gently onto the bench in front of him. Still staring at the cloth, Illya opened the sheet of paper. As Lori Spence had said, it was a report of his examination and the recommendations which followed. He put down the paper and stared at the cloth again, before picking it up. It had a pungent smell reminding him of the cheap perfume some of the girls in the typing pool seemed to splash on liberally. He put it down again, realising that his fingers now reeked of the stuff as he put them to his nose. Leaving the cloth on the bench, he wandered over to the sink and began to wash his hands. As he dried them, a thought deep in his head began to uncoil itself. He looked at himself in the mirror and froze, his heart beginning to pound within his chest. Throwing down the towel he ran to the door and pressed the emergency close button, before frantically scrabbling for the communicator in his jacket.

'Open all channels. This is a security alert. Establish a quarantine round the laboratories and apprehend Miss Lori Spence immediately. I repeat, she is not to leave the building. And please inform Medical that they should prepare quarantine facilities for one occupant of Laboratory six.' There was a moment's hiatus before a voice said, 'Quarantine in progress. Can you give me the name of the occupant of Laboratory Six?'

'Illya Kuryakin. Section Two' he replied dully, before closing his communicator and staring glumly at the door.

xxxxxx

Napoleon flattened himself against the wall outside his office as two figures in blue protective clothing pushing a trolley sped past him at the exact moment as his communicator went off, barely audible above the wailing of the emergency sirens.

'Mr Solo, report to Mr Waverly's office immediately'. He stared at Machin, who, having brought down the box from Pharmacy was talking to someone on the phone inside the office. He turned round as Napoleon came back in, his normally laid-back expression now grave, even slightly scared, Napoleon thought.

'Napoleon, that gurney, it's headed for Lab Six. Isn't that . . .'

'Illya's lab' Napoleon said. He grabbed the phone from Machin's hand and hastily punched in several digits, the siren and the general hubbub in the corridor fading to a dull roar in his head.

'Kuryakin.'

'Illya, what is going on? Brian said that . . .'

'I can't talk, they're here now. I'll ring you from Medical. Mr Waverly will fill you in.' There was a tiny pause, before he added, 'Napoleon don't come near me until the barrier thing is set up . . please.'

Flinging the phone back onto its cradle, he grabbed his jacket.

'I have to see Waverly and find out what is going on. Catch you later.' He ran down the corridor and slammed his hand on the lift control, his mind furiously turning over what could possibly have resulted in the series of emergencies that seemed to have sent the whole UNCLE office into a tail spin. As the lift arrived at Waverly's floor, the siren suddenly ceased, but the scene in front of him was still frantic, a number of people he recognised from Section Three talking together in whispers in the outer office, while Lisa Rogers directed a whole phalanx of computer operators and clerks in churning out paperwork destined for Waverly's eyes only.

Napoleon nodded to the Section Three agents before passing through into Waverly's office. He was in his usual place, staring out of the window towards the East River, the sun filling the room with bright, warm light that contrasted savagely with the dark mood within it.

'Sit down Mr Solo' he said quietly, returning to his side of the table and spinning it round towards Napoleon.

'Um, sir, Illya; I . . .'

'Mr Kuryakin is in isolation at the moment. We have his quick thinking to thank for this not turning out to be a disaster on an epic scale.'

xxxxxxx

The room was so devoid of anything that could be described as even remotely attractive or interesting ,that Illya began to believe he was being sensorily deprived, unless staring at the end of his bed or the door could be termed stimulating. He glanced down at his body, now dignified by a gown that reminded him of something he washed up with at home, before turning over disconsolately and staring at the pillow instead.

'I wouldn't adopt that position for long if I were you, comrade; a little revealing for those this side of the screen.' Illya jumped slightly, before twisting round and sitting up. He had guessed rightly that the black glass screen facing his bed was capable of working two ways, and had tried to put the idea of being watched out of his mind. He crossed his legs, pulling the sheet up a little to ensure he was not exposing any more of his anatomy to those on the other side of the glass.

'He doesn't seem to be worried about it, does he?' Napoleon glanced at the woman who had just entered the room, one of the many scientists working in the Immunology lab nearby to the one Kuryakin used.

'You think so?' Before he could speak, she had taken the microphone from him and clicked it on again.

'Mr Kuryakin. How are you feeling? Would you like me to run through the lab results from the contents of the envelope and your blood work up? Then I can probably give you an idea of what may happen to you in the next few days.'

Napoleon lent across and switched off the mike, glancing at Kuryakin's outwardly calm face as he turned away from the glass.

'Miss er . .'

'_Dr_ Francis' she said, tapping the plastic name tag attached to her lab coat, before reaching across for the mike. Napoleon brought his hand across hers, the smile on his face slipping away rapidly as he maintained his pressure on her arm. She pulled back, an awkward silence between them for a few moments.

'Dr Francis' Napoleon began again, 'would you mind running through your findings with me first before you share them with Mr Kuryakin there?' She narrowed her eyes, a scornful expression creeping onto her rather pudgy face.

'Mr Solo, your partner is a scientist, and is perfectly capable of understanding the results of our investigations, which, as I understand, you are not.'

Napoleon was aware of Illya behind him, his face clouded with annoyance at the conversation which he was not party to.

'Let's make this brief, Dr Francis' Napoleon continued. Despite my lack of scientific skills, I'm up to speed with exactly what this variant of Mumps does to its victims. I need to know two things; one, has he got it, and two, how long before he's sick. Then you're free to leave and do whatever you folks in your lab like to do to amuse yourself between morning and night.'

There was another short silence between them, before she put down her clipboard and sighed, giving Illya, now in the midst of a full on glare at the glass, a rather tender look, before returning her gaze to Napoleon.

'He has contracted the variant form of the virus, through the piece of cloth as we suspected. We've had very little time to look at it properly, but from the reports we were given, it would appear that he has about one to two days before symptoms begin, perhaps less. It's not like the normal onset, Mr Solo; everything about it is so . . ' she looked towards Illya and then forced her attention back towards Solo; 'so, _extreme_.

'I guess you mean by that, that he'll . . . '

'Yeah, he'll almost certainly not be able to have any more children after this' she said quietly. 'I don't know how he knew, but if he hadn't acted as rapidly as he did, then, well, I guess all you guys owe your future as fathers to him.'

Napoleon watched her leave before slowly turning round and switching the mike back on. Illya had drawn up a chair to the glass and was sitting on it, leaning his body against its back, his arms crossed across the top.

'At last. Care to share your conversation with Dr Francis with me, or am I too vulnerable to know the truth of her diagnosis?'

'How did you know?'

'How did I know what?'

'How did you know it was infected with Miss Bolt's special brand of Mumps?' Illya shrugged, tilting his head slightly to the side.

'I didn't, but thinking about it now it seems to fit.' Napoleon frowned, as Illya waited patiently for him to think about his last statement.

'Napoleon, this is not just about Lee Hua Bolt trying to take over the world. I mean, it may be, but as I said to you before, I think the controlled releases of this virus are designed to demonstrate her weapon to, well, . .'

'THRUSH Central?' Illya nodded.

'That is her main objective, I'm sure of it. However, there is a flaw here, Napoleon, a fatal flaw which may lead to her undoing' Illya said more animatedly, his eyes fixing Napoleon through the glass.

'I don't think I like where this is going' Solo replied, a kind of tight feeling beginning to grip his chest.

'You don't have to like it, Napoleon, and if you think I like it, you are very much mistaken, but if it leads us to her, then we have to take it.' They looked at each other for a few moments, their closeness, as on so many other occasions in the past, obviating the need for words.

'Let me guess. Bolt is allowing her feelings to influence her decisions, if it's possible to attribute feelings to a creature like her.'

'Or him, remember.' Illya swung his leg off the chair and stood up, the gown making him look outwardly more vulnerable than Napoleon knew the inner man to be.

'Napoleon, I don't have much time. We're going round the houses here trying not to say what both of us know to be the truth. Besides her general aim to control the world, Miss Bolt has decided to get personal with me. It's not accidental that Tess was attacked and appears to remember nothing, or that Pablo won't regain consciousness. Neither is it chance that I was the person selected to start an epidemic in New York. And it's not because the gods are looking favourably upon me that Anya has suddenly appeared, bearing gifts.' He came closer to the glass, his blue eyes almost glittering in the subdued lighting of the room.

'My thwarting of her little demonstration here will only serve to encourage her with her personal vendetta against me, Napoleon. She's bound to try again elsewhere to show her friends in THRUSH how clever she is, and as soon as I am well again, we will have to find the source of the virus and destroy it. But in the meantime she will almost certainly attempt to carry out her intentions towards me personally.'

Napoleon pulled a pad and pencil towards him that had been left on the desk next to the mike. He picked up the pencil, willing his hand not to shake.

'I thought it was Tess she wanted' he said, swallowing back the nausea beginning to rise in his stomach.

'Don't attribute normal feelings to her' Illya replied savagely. 'You've seen what she does. It's not just Tess now, Napoleon. She has a plan to destroy my life, little by little, until there is nothing left. Anyone who has a connection, a personal connection with me is at risk, and that includes you.'

Napoleon grabbed the pad, a kind of furious anger building within him.

'Don't get angry, it's pointless and it won't help us' Illya said gently. 'Listen. Try to work on my wife to make her tell you if necessary, what she knows and won't tell me. I have a very bad feeling inside me that she is trying to do something brave because she feels responsible for all this.'

'Oh God' Napoleon muttered, writing down the word 'Tess' at the top of the page.

'Then, Napoleon, make sure that my children are never left alone with Anya. There is some connection between her and Bolt, though I find it hard to believe she would involve herself with a monster like that. I would suggest that you try to put a lead on Arshavin. There is something wrong there' he said wistfully, gazing at Napoleon. 'Talk to Waverly about restricting exactly what Anya is allowed to know about future developments in this affair, without her realising it of course.'

Napoleon smiled. '

'Yeah, sure. She's pretty smart, in case you hadn't noticed, as well as being sweet on you, of course.' Illya pursed his lips, an expression Solo had seen many times before.

'Don't be ridiculous. I'm sure you can come up with something to distract her until I'm on my feet again.' He sighed, and glanced back at the bed.

'Perhaps you'll only have a mild attack. You never know.' Illya smiled at him pityingly.

'When did I ever have a 'mild attack' as you so tactfully put it? No, you and I know what will happen and what my prognosis is. So, talking of fertility, give me some good news, Napoleon. How is the part of my family now residing along the corridor doing?'

Napoleon shook his head. Kuryakin's ability to assume a cheerful manner in the face of total disaster never ceased to amaze him. For the life of him he had never understood why some people found his partner cold. To him, the Russian had always been the opposite; warm even passionate about so many things, light-hearted and enthusiastic about some. Pragmatic, single-minded about his work, but never cold. In the face of perhaps the greatest threat to his happiness as a human being, he remained stubborn and determined to overcome all obstacles in his path. Napoleon put the pencil down and smiled at his partner.

'I'll take a trip down the corridor and get back to you with a full report' he answered, trying to appear more cheerful than he felt.

'Well hurry up otherwise I may not be up to seeing visitors' Illya replied. He stood in front of the glass for a moment, before saying,

'Oh Napoleon, one more thing; could you get someone to bring me something to wear that doesn't resemble a dishcloth?'

CHAPTER ELEVEN

For some reason, Napoleon had forgotten to tell Illya about Lori Spence. She had been apprehended in the process of leaving the building and brought to the interrogation cells, where she was now being left to stew until Napoleon decided it was the right time to talk. He had taken a trip down there after seeing Kuryakin, gazing through another two way mirror at the woman who had caused the probable death of one UNCLE employee and was responsible for the imminent suffering of another. He returned to his office and spent some time going through her file, looking for connections with Bolt.

It was a clever choice. She was one of those invisible types which every organisation contained; efficient, hard-working, but ultimately not a person to draw one's attention. He remembered her suturing Kuryakin's head, but only because Napoleon had been trying to distract him from what she was doing by telling him some jokes in Russian .

'Your accent is creditable, Napoleon but the jokes are poor and I can still see that there is some of my hair on the floor'. She had apologised, and Kuryakin had been charming, but their interest in her had been minimal, their memory of her ending just as quickly as the door closing behind them. How she had got involved with Bolt was not clear from her records, but there was always the possibility that her actions had been controlled in some way by another person within the walls of UNCLE New York. It was well into the afternoon when he eventually headed towards Medical , weighing up his conversation with his partner and still wondering what on earth he might both tell and learn from Therese Kuryakin.

Pablo's room was quiet, the boy looking small and delicate amongst the equipment and machines surrounding him. He was turned on his side, his face in repose on the pillow as Napoleon drew up a chair beside him.

'Hi, fella' he said quietly, touching the boy's soft brown hair. 'Your mama and papa are wondering how you're doing.' He was breathing independently, his eyes closed, the thick lashes sweeping across his face under the lids. Napoleon thought back to the night of the accident, reliving the moment when he thought Pablo lay dead amongst the shadows of the church gallery. 'Your mama is fine' he added, frowning. He sat there for a while, the still atmosphere being strangely conducive to thinking. Pablo's arm lay loosely across the top of the bed, the long fingers curved round the delicate hand, so different to those of his adoptive father. He had spent far more time than he wanted to think about, sitting at the side of similar beds all over the world, gazing at his partner's face, willing him to wake up. The possibility of serious injury and death came with their profession, but this boy was different. This was not right.

He grasped the hand and gently massaged it, willing consciousness into the child, before laying it down again carefully on the bed. The fingers re- assumed their curled position, his breathing, the beeping of the machines, all playing the same, steady beat.

xxxxxx

'McCaffery.'

'Fernando? It's Napoleon.' The sounds of the beach flowed into the corridor, momentarily diverting Napoleon from his thoughts of the unconscious child and his parents. 'Um, can you stick with the family at the moment; there've been some developments here and I need you to look after the kids until we can arrange something more permanent.'

Fernando stared into his communicator, before waving cheerfully to Anya and Frankie, who were in the process of building a sandcastle of immense proportions on the wet sand not far from edge of the sea.

'Permanent? Where's Illya? Being force fed in Medical?' Napoleon?'

'There's been an attempt to spread the mumps virus in New York, starting here.'

'Wow. How many are down with it?'

'Just the one. He was smart enough to realise and isolate himself before it spread.'

'I'd say 'smart Russian' if it wasn't in such poor taste.'

'Yeah. Well he's going to be one very sick Russian soon, so we need you to fill in '_in loco parentis'_ as it were.'

'You know Anya is here? I thought she was going to . . . .'

'Just take it from me that everything is not quite as it seems at the moment. Let's just say that while Mama Bear is indisposed, Papa Bear doesn't want the Russian Bear in sole charge of the family.'

'Right. So Uncle Bear's in charge then.'

'Funny man. I'll be in touch later. Solo out.'

Fernando rubbed his head, before stomping back to the others across the sand.

'I think we should pack up' he said, as the twins ran headlong towards him, bawling '_unca unca'_ in unison. 'There seems to be a little '_situation'_ brewing, girls.'

xxxxxxxx

'D'you know, it's been like Piccadilly Circus here today' Therese began, almost as soon as he came in the room. Considering she'd only been there less than three days, the transformation round her was incredible. A large white bedsheet had been attached somehow to one of the walls, upon which were pinned various pictures and photographs, as well as numerous signatures and bits of writing in a variety of colours and styles. An assortment of containers held a variety of floral arrangements stuck on sills and ledges round the room, while Therese's bedside table was piled high with books and writing equipment. On the far side of the bed, a small tape-recorder was playing, the music sounding vaguely similar to something Napoleon had last heard at the Kuryakins' wedding.

'_Rachmaninov's Vespers'_ Therese breathed, her eyes partially closing as she lay in the midst of her fairy tale room. She put her hand up to the delicate tiara perching in her hair, which had been arranged into an elaborate chignon on top of her head.

'Like my look?' she said sweetly, opening her eyes a little. 'Rudi decided I should be a princess for the day. Silly isn't it? Illya will be ferreting around pulling out the pins in no time.' She paused, regarding Napoleon standing in the doorway.

'Princess, we need to talk.' Therese narrowed her eyes, and leaned slightly towards the tape-recorder, the abrupt cessation of the music allowing the noise of the corridor to re-assert itself through the open door into the room.

Napoleon sat on the bed, twisting himself to face her.

It's about Illya.'

'Something's happened, hasn't it?' she murmured. He could see her reflecting on something, before she said, 'that was him, wasn't it, that they brought through all covered up. Please, don't tell me something horrible has happened to him in the laboratory?' Napoleon stared at her, before realising what she might be imagining.

'Oh God no; nothing like that. What I mean is, no kind of explosion or accident.' He looked down and sighed a little, before continuing, 'Tess, he's, well, been infected.'

'_Infected_?' Napoleon glanced round, wondering how much longer he had before the doctors came in.

'Look, it's something we've been investigating; it's been happening in a few places round the world. That's why Anya is here; she's brought us some information' Napoleon blundered on, knowing that what he was saying was bordering on nonsensical and that she would want more information, and eventually would work out the connections for herself. He didn't have long to wait.

'What is it, what is wrong with him?' she continued, heaving herself along the bed and sliding her legs sideways until they were dangling over the side.

'What are you doing? Stay there, Tess, and listen for a minute.'

He came round the bed and pushed her legs back up, watching as she flopped backwards against the pillows. Her pregnancy now seemed obvious in a way it hadn't appeared before, her swollen belly looking huge in comparison to the long slim legs lying splayed out on the bed.

'He has a form of mumps, but it's a variant on the normal type' he began again. 'Um, it has a very short incubation period, and well, some fairly extreme complications.' Therese frowned.

'He's had mumps; he told me about it. It was when he was living with his cousins on the farm. He didn't have any 'complications', or so he said.'

'No, obviously' Napoleon replied, smiling a little. 'But this time it's different. This isn't the . . er . ._normal_ type.' She lay back silently on the pillows. Her face was so expressive that Napoleon could almost taste her emotions as they washed over her. If she was planning to do anything, as her husband thought she was, he was horrified by the idea of it; he couldn't imagine her being able to conceal her thoughts and feelings from others in the way that he and his partner had been required to do for so long now it seemed almost natural.

'It's her, isn't it?' she said finally, opening her eyes. 'Lee's behind this, isn't she?'. Napoleon curled his lip and groaned inwardly.

'I can't discuss it, you know that' he said. 'I just need you to tell me now if there is something you know and which you're not revealing. Illya is convinced there is, and that is not helping the situation, Tess.'

'What is going to happen to him?' Therese said, completely ignoring Napoleon's last statement, and pulling a pad of paper towards her. He could see that she was avoiding his gaze, as she tore something she had been writing from the pad, and folded it.

'They think he'll be sick for about a week, but won't be infectious that long. Um, it'll be like regular mumps, only from what we've learnt, there could be a risk of meningitis or pancreatitis, but that's only happened in a few cases. And he probably won't be able . .'

'to father any more children?' Therese said, unconsciously stroking her abdomen and looking away from him. He could see she was upset, her eyes brimming, her lips pulled tight as she ground her teeth together.

'I suppose you think I'd be glad to hear that' she said eventually, turning back to him.

'I don't suppose you'd be glad to hear anything that means he'll be in pain' Napoleon replied. 'He needs to know that you and the baby are safe; that will help him to get through this'. Therese reached into the pile of books and papers and drew out an envelope into which she slipped the piece of paper.

'Tell him, . . .' She paused, before thrusting the envelope towards Solo. 'Tell him that the baby and I will be safe. And give him this. Mr Shearer has told me that I have to stay for another couple of weeks, and then if all is well, I can leave here. So it seems I have to entrust you with my family, Napoleon.'

She lay back on the bed, pulling the tiara from her head and leaving it dangling on top of the pile of books by her side. As the doctors came into the room, Napoleon realised that she had very successfully avoided telling him anything at all.

xxxxxxx

'Clark Huang's residence. How may I help you?'. Yvonne grimaced at the high-pitched, almost female tones of the Personal Assistant's voice, imagining him standing by his immaculate desk in the part of the apartment which she had only glimpsed briefly on one of her visits there.

'It's Miss Shumway, Alan. Is he there?' She caught a muffled, brief conversation in the background as she waited, before the familiar, metallic sounding voice spoke.

'Yvonne. I was wondering when you might ring.'

Yvonne shoved down a heavy feeling of despair before saying 'I'm sorry; there were a lot of things to take care of and . .' She didn't want to say what had come into her mind; that ringing him made her feel sick inside, and that she wanted to complete whatever she had to do to see Fern again, so that she need never see or hear of Clark Huang, Lee-Hua Bolt, or any other persona she might want to adopt, for as long as she lived.

'I applied the gel to the Kuryakin boy.'

'Yes, the gel has proved very successful in avoiding any obvious signs of an injection site' Huang interrupted. 'From current research, specimens have maintained an unconscious state for three to four months. That should be more than adequate for our purposes.' Yvonne cringed at his description of the boy as little more than a rat in a cage.

'Now tell me about Mr Kuryakin' Huang said, as if this family's lives were on an agenda in front of him.

'He is in isolation. The word is that one of the PA's infected him with something but he realised before it spread round the building.' Huang sniffed, Yvonne imagining the expression on his face when the Russian agent's name was mentioned.

'That is a pity. It would have been a rather delicious irony if responsibility for the infection of Manhattan could have been laid solely at the door of UNCLE' he replied, sniffing again. 'However, Mr Kuryakin will now be indisposed for a little time, enough to make the execution of my plans for his family so much easier.' The name jerked Yvonne back to the events of the morning. Therese had insisted that she sign the sheet hanging in the room, despite her initial protests. Yvonne had glanced at the pictures attached to it, photographs and drawings of special places and people in Therese Kuryakin's obviously interesting life.

There was one in particular, a photograph showing her on a beach with her husband and a baby, the same one she thought must be the exuberant little girl with the red hair who now visited her mother and insisted on telling them all how naughty her brothers were. She had explained to Yvonne that she had set the camera on a timed release, laughing as she related the story of the photo.

'He wouldn't cooperate' she had said, smiling; 'look, you can see he was tickling me'. It was a beautiful photograph. Therese, with short curly hair foaming round her face, laughing at the camera, while her husband, with longer, soft blond hair bleached to straw by the sun, stared at her, a kind of impish wonderment animating his face, the baby cocooned between them in a relationship that made Yvonne want to smile and weep at the same time.

She had seen Kuryakin's partner in Therese's room that afternoon and had debated whether to tell him everything, pondering the idea that if he knew her dilemma he could help her find Fern. She hesitated, debating within herself until he had turned and walked past her, and the moment had gone.

'Now what exactly did the good doctor say to Therese?' Huang's voice cut into her thoughts brutally, dissolving the image like wax before an intense, roaring fire. 'After all' he continued, 'we wouldn't want to risk the welfare of the last of the Kuryakin family now, would we?'

xxxxxxxxx

Napoleon shoved Therese's letter in the inside pocket of his jacket and headed towards the end of the long corridor encompassing the Medical section of UNCLE. He glanced at his watch. It was already late afternoon, the nurses' shift had changed and there were two unfamiliar male nurses on duty in the reception area as he approached the desk opposite the three rooms making up the unit.

He knew for a fact that only one of them was occupied, the outer door to the third firmly closed. The two nurses looked up from studying a clipboard as the door to Kuryakin's rooms opened and a female nurse exited wearing scrubs.

'I didn't think it was possible for anyone to vomit that much' she said, shaking her head. 'Jeez, what did he have to eat this morning?' Napoleon, in spite of himself, felt a smile crease his lips at the thought of the black pudding, now probably a congealed mess in the waste disposal system which was part of the isolation unit.

'Is he able to talk?' he said, already aware of the answer from the look on their faces.

'Hell no' one of the male nurses replied, his eyes almost bulging in his wide expressive face. 'He ain't fit for nothing at the moment, Mr Solo. Youse can look if you like, but I don't suppose youse two'll be having any sort of conversation for a few days.' Napoleon sighed inwardly as he headed for the door. He had failed to reach his partner in time and now Illya had succumbed to the infection without knowing the answer to the questions which had worried him so greatly. He heard Therese's voice repeating in his head; _'and so it seems I have to entrust you with my family, Napoleon'. _It seemed that now he was in sole charge.

He sat down dejectedly at the table and stared through the glass at the third member of the same family affected by the evil intentions of someone with no clear identity or whereabouts. He looked pale but blotchy, Napoleon thought, his face and neck already swollen unnaturally, the usual lines now attached to various parts of his anatomy, the usual machines bleeping. He heard the door behind him open as a nurse, heavily protected, appeared in the room and folded back the top sheet before beginning to sponge down Kuryakin's face and body with tender strokes.

'How long will this go on?' Napoleon said, without turning.

'Oh as long as it takes for Mr Kuryakin to fight off this infection, I would presume Mr Solo.' Napoleon jumped a little and swung round to face the creased features of Alexander Waverly behind him. Waverly motioned him to sit down and took his place the other side of the narrow table, the microphone sitting unused between them.

He had a narrow folder in his hand which he lay on the table, before looking through the glass for what seemed like quite a long time.

'I presume Therese Kuryakin knows the condition of her husband' Waverly said simply, still frowning at the figure on the bed as the nurse finished her work and covered Illya with a sheet.

'Yes sir. Um, I had a short conversation with Mr Kuryakin earlier. He still thinks Tess is holding back something about what happened at St Clare's. I tried to persuade her to tell me, but . .'

'She got the better of you, no doubt, Mr Solo' Waverly replied.

'Er, quite possibly. Illya . . er, Mr Kuryakin believes that Ms Bolt has a twin agenda; the main course is obviously the threatening of world fertility she seems to be intent on, but he also thinks she has a side dish.'

'And that is . . ?'

'Mr Kuryakin himself, or rather the Kuryakin family, sir. He seems to think that she is intent on destroying him through his family, and that this is a weakness we can exploit.' Waverly sat back in his chair and regarded Napoleon before turning back to the glass screen.

'I have to admit that the thought did come to my mind too, Mr Solo, though it didn't give me any pleasure in thinking it.'

Napoleon joined him in looking at his partner. He looked desperately uncomfortable, his face flushed and sticky looking, the blond hair stuck across his forehead in wet clumps as he tossed his head from side to side on the pillow. Napoleon forced himself to look away, to concentrate on what Illya had told him, as he knew he would want him to do.

'He went to see the Arshavins on Sunday' Napoleon began again, concentrating on Waverly. 'He thinks that they're involved with Bolt too, if this isn't sounding too paranoid.'

Waverly frowned, flicking open the file as he drummed his fingers on the desk.

'We need to proceed carefully with this' he said slowly. 'Mr Kuryakin has always talked very highly of Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina, but we know less about her husband of course. The evidence she brought, together with our preliminary investigations in Norway look pretty convincing, and I was hoping that you and Mr Kuryakin would be able to go there very soon to put an end to the production of this virus. There's no doubt that having been foiled in New York, Miss Bolt will want to impress THRUSH Central by demonstrating that she can succeed elsewhere on a bigger scale.'

Napoleon could feel the envelope Therese had given him digging into his chest as he spoke.

'Don't you think all this so-called 'evidence' is just proving to be a little too 'easy' sir? I mean, after getting nowhere for quite a while, we suddenly get this stuff dropped in our lap from our ever so friendly comrades in the GRU, who appear to want nothing in exchange except a chance to pal up with their former compatriot and his family. If we go on the theory of Bolt having a twin agenda, and Illya and I go to Norway, I can't help but feel as if we're playing right into Bolt's hands and leaving his family unprotected.'

'I understand what you're saying Mr Solo, but I don't think we have any choice, especially after what Miss Spence has been saying.'

'Miss Spence?

'Apparently she decided she wasn't going to wait for you to interrogate her, Mr Solo. She made a full confession, admitting to the murder of Miss Jones, apparently because she'd got wind of her intent to infect us all with this damn virus. She claimed that she received the stuff directly from the company we identified in Norway; says it's all under the THRUSH umbrella.'

'How convenient. What about Miss Bolt?'

She claims never to have heard of her. You can try, but I can't think we'll get anything else from her. However, I'm sending Dr Francis down to look at her in the vain hope that we can ascertain whether she has been chemically programmed in some way.

'So if she says she doesn't know Bolt, what's her motive for helping THRUSH?'

'Apparently it's down to Mr Kuryakin. She claims that he made advances towards her and when she refused them, threatened to get her dismissed.' Napoleon banged his hand down on the desk, his ring making a loud clunking noise which echoed in the sparseness of the room.

'You can't believe that for a second, sir' he said quietly, staring back at the figure on the bed in front of them.

'No, but I rather think it suggests that Miss Bolt is determined to bring down Mr Kuryakin by whatever means is available' he replied.

Napoleon glanced through the screen again at his partner, now quieter, his breathing laboured but steady.

'What about Illya's family, sir? Waverly turned his head, regarding the figure on the bed for some time, before turning back to Napoleon.

'We have to leave them in Madame Arshavina's care at the moment, despite Mr Kuryakin's concerns' he said rather heavily. 'If she suspects we distrust her, then we risk losing the chance of discovering if there is a link with Miss Bolt or whoever she calls herself at the moment. I suggest, Mr Solo, that while Mr Kuryakin recovers, you see if you can discover a little more about Captain Arshavin. We can only follow the leads we have at the moment, and it would be foolish in the extreme if we didn't . I need you and Mr Kuryakin to ascertain exactly what is going on in this factory in Norway; if it is the actual place where the virus is being produced, then Mr Kuryakin's skill with explosives will ensure we don't create an international incident at the same time as destroying the plant. If it is bogus then we need to know why someone should want to create such an elaborate charade, and more importantly, where the virus is actually being manufactured.'

'And Therese Kuryakin?'

'Well, let's hope that before her stay in Medical comes to an end, you'll have discovered what it is that she is hiding, if indeed she is hiding anything at all.' He pushed the file over the desk towards Napoleon and stood up.

'That's what we know about Arshavin to get you started. It might prove valuable to know his whereabouts for the next few days.' Waverly opened the door and walked out towards the reception, the two male nurses slightly stiffening in his presence.

'Make sure you let me know the moment Mr Kuryakin is able to receive visitors, won't you?' he said, before turning and ambling off down the corridor towards the lifts. It was only when Napoleon passed by Pablo Kuryakin's room a few minutes later, that he realised where Waverly's true destination had been.

CHAPTER TWELVE

'So, I propose, little ones, that we see something of this _Manhattan_' Anya said, smiling positively at Pascale's rather anxious looking face.

'Are you sure we are allowed?' Pascale began slowly, her gaze travelling over Anya and beyond the open French doors to where Anastasiya was attempting cartwheels on the grass between the fruit trees at the back of the garden. Anya turned, her gaze directed towards the little girl, now running in large circles round the trees before standing still and jumping several times in the air.

'What is she doing?'

'Training' Pascale said, as if it were a fairly normal activity for a three year old. 'Papa told her he had to do lots of training now, so of course what Papa does, Anastasiya must do as well.'

Anya continued to watch the diminutive child performing various other tumbles and little circuits. She stopped after a few more minutes and suddenly waved enthusiastically at them, before stooping to pick up a small ball and with considerable skill for her age, throwing it up in the air and chasing it as it came down. There was a joy in her actions combined with some degree of seriousness, her expression a tiny mirror of the one Anya had seen on her father's face as he ran or cycled past her in another country and another time.

'She _idolises_ papa' Pascale continued, pausing for a moment before saying, 'but we all do, of course.' It seemed a very adult word to use, Anya thought, but hearing it made her feel uneasy. She shook her head slightly and turned back to face Pascale.

'I'm sure your papa will want us to visit places of educational and historic importance in his adopted country' she said rather stiffly. 'The twins are at the crèche until this afternoon, and he will pick them up if we leave a message.'

Pascale frowned very slightly, before nodding and moving towards the French windows.

'_Oui, d'accord'_ she replied, slipping into French almost unconsciously. I will tell Tasiya to end the training session then.'

They walked through the sweltering streets, made bearable only by the shade of the houses on either side, until they reached Broadway, the girls standing obediently by the side of the huge road as Anya stepped forward and hailed a cab.

'Battery Park' she had said, sounding more commanding than she had meant. 'Drop us at Bowling Green . . . and we will walk from there' she had added almost as an aside. She had studied maps of Manhattan before she had arrived, noting the important landmarks, the gridlines of the main roads and intersections, surprised by the size of Central Park and the contrast between the immense blocks in midtown and the more human, low rise buildings downtown. She had run her finger along the small streets of West Village, already knowing where he lived, not surprised by the location, so different to the faceless blocks they had inhabited together in Gorky.

They tumbled out of the cab back into the relentless heat of the afternoon. Without needing to be told, Pascale reached into the bag they were carrying and gave Tasiya a drink, the little girl gulping down the liquid with grateful eyes fixed on her sister.

'_Attention Tasiya, ton chapeau'_ Pascale said firmly, dragging a soft green hat out of the bag and pulling it gently over the little girl's thick red hair.

'She has Papa's expressions . . . all of them' Pascale murmured, smiling, as the girls stood hand in hand ready to cross the road. Anya nodded, seeing him in both his children; his determination, his sense of fun, his gentleness. She forced down whatever was rising up in her stomach to choke her and led them across the road and into the long esplanade leading to the fortress like building that she read about, now standing between them and the sparkling waters of the River Hudson.

_Castle Clinton_. It was one of the less well known but more interesting buildings she had studied in her preparations for this mission. Not that it could rival the Chrysler Building for sheer architectural beauty, or the Empire State for dominating height. No, it was its symbolism, its history that drew her to its solid entrance and thick curving walls. She imagined arriving here as so many of her compatriots had done, passing through this place to an unknown future full of hope and expectation, free from control, but in that freedom a fear of surviving in this huge, unknown foreign land without the structure that her homeland offered to its people. Millions had passed this way, some to great prosperity, others to lives of hardship and suffering. She looked round, conscious of the din of a huge construction programme behind her in the forest of tower blocks making up the financial sector of this great city. After Gorky, it seemed overwhelming, brash, disdainful of the past. Yet the solid little structure ahead spoke of so much hope, of excitement in what could be. She could see now why Illyusha was here. And why he couldn't return.

'Anya?' She was jerked from her thoughts by Pascale's light touch on her arm. She gazed at her, the Kuryakin girl's look outwardly trusting, but Anya caught something underneath it, a suggestion of doubt forming in the girl's brain. Perhaps the girl's past, her training with THRUSH, or just the fact that she had inherited something from her father alerted her to the fact that all was not as it appeared.

'Sorry, I was just deciding what we should do. Shall we find a place to have our picnic, and then perhaps we could have a look inside the Castle' she offered.

'Can we go to Libity?' Tasiya piped up, doing a little dance in front of them involving jumping and clapping. 'I love Libity!'

'She means the Statue of Liberty' Pascale said, indicating in the direction of a small ferry setting off across the river. 'Uncle Napoleon took us there a few weeks ago when we were all missing Papa a lot. We all love Liberty' she added, looking sharply at Anya in a way that made her feel tense.

They made their way towards the entrance, then skirting round it, sat under the trees on a bench with the Castle to their right and the expanse of the river in front of them. Without speaking, Pascale withdrew a large sandwich from the depths of the basket and handed it to Tasiya who began to devour it silently, a look of dedicated concentration on her face.

'She will be quiet now for a while' Pascale said, gently flicking the little girl's thick fringe from her face. 'She likes eating.' Anya brightened at the sight of Tasiya and her sandwich. She accepted a drink from Pascale, who appeared to have taken charge of the basket. They sat quietly for a while, the dappled shade and the breeze from the river combining to make the place feel comfortable at least for now.

Anya swivelled her head slightly, taking in the curving wall of the Castle, in front of which an assortment of runners, businessmen on a lunch break and tourists passed by, each there for disparate reasons, she reflected. As the wall curved away from them, a small group of kiosks selling cards and gifts perched, before which a straggle of people stood, then further on, the office selling tickets for the short river trip to the Statue of Liberty standing iconically up river on its little island home.

She recognised Arshavin instantly, despite the fact that he was in clothes she'd never seen in his wardrobe, with an incongruously looking baseball cap pulled down over his short dark hair. She could see that he was mechanically chewing something even from this distance, an action which, though not odd for an American in public, was something Europeans were not often seen doing beyond the dining table. As she watched, he began to remove what she imagined was chewing gum, attaching it to a small letter he had withdrawn from his sweat pants pocket. As he stood apparently looking at the myriad postcards displayed on stands in front of one of the kiosks, her practised eye saw his hand move and affix the letter to the bottom rack, behind a few rather neglected looking cards lurking there. Anya could see the edge of the envelope just poking out imperceptibly from the rest as she watched him stroll away nonchalantly and disappear round the curved edge of the Castle.

She breathed out slowly, glanced quickly back at the girls, who now seemed to be engaged on chomping their way through very large red eating apples, Tasiya attempting to talk animatedly and eat at the same time. Her gaze returned to the letter, still minutely exposed, as she saw a man of Napoleon's height and build, but with rather lank looking brown hair cut short and made to stand in what she thought looked like a brush on his head, approach the stand. To outside observers, he appeared to be a businessman taking a late lunch; his immaculate suit was complimented by a small black leather briefcase, his jacket folded carefully over it as he stood poring over the cards. As he switched his briefcase and jacket to the other hand there was a slight hiatus, but as he walked away Anya could see that the envelope was no longer in its place.

'Well hi there, and how are my favourite girls doing today?'

Anya jerked her head round, her face registering her shock at seeing the sight of Napoleon Solo knelt before her, Anastasiya now in the process of giving him a messy kiss followed by a calmly offered paper napkin from Pascale.

'Napoleon. We were . . not expecting you' she stammered, finding it difficult to look into his candid brown eyes.

'Well, I wasn't expecting to you see you either, but there you go, life is full of surprises' he said, doing something with his lips that she always found exciting and disturbing in equal measure. Tasiya had now finished both eating and kissing, and was standing in front of them, holding herself between her shorts in a rather unladylike way and hopping from one foot to the other.

'Can I go for a toilet?' she squeeked, an English word that always brought a smile to Napoleon's lips.

'Um, perhaps aunty Anya would take you to the rest rooms' Napoleon said calmly, looking pointedly at Anya. 'They're over there.'

He slumped down next to Pascale, taking her arm and gently squeezing her hand as they sat companionably together for a few moments.

'So, how are you?' he said at last, not looking at her, just intently staring at the river, now reflecting the heavy gold of the afternoon sun.

'I am better now that Papa is better and mama is coming home.' Pascale replied simply. Napoleon glanced at her profile, catching glimpses of her mother in her slightly upturned nose and darker complexion and hair than the usual Kuryakin shade. Otherwise, she was in essence a smaller, female version of his partner sitting there staring at the river by his side. And not just in appearance either.

'It is good to be with Anya, but she is hiding something' she began earnestly.

'Oh, and do you know what that might be?'

'No, Uncle Napoleon, I don't, but I think it is making her very sad' she murmured, turning towards him. When we went to visit Papa when he was still in that room away from everybody else, she looked at him in the way that Mama looks at him, but then she looked sad again. Do you think she is sad because he is married to Mama and not to her?' she asked, her eyes accurately reflecting her mood, deep blue pools in her serious face.

'Perhaps. But you musn't worry, honey. I'm sure Anya is just concerned about your papa getting better.'

'Perhaps' she replied, echoing his words. They twisted round a little as Napoleon saw Anya returning with Tasiya in the distance. The little girl suddenly wrenched her hand out of Anya's and ran to the kiosk selling ice-creams. Napoleon could see her jumping up and down, her hat flying off, the shock of bright red hair vibrant in the sun as she gyrated round a large metal advert showing a huge ice cream with a large chocolate stick poking out of it.

'Oh dear, Tasiya is becoming as difficult as the boys' Pascale said, sighing loudly. 'Papa needs to take them in hand.' Napoleon controlled the smirk on his face as she turned towards him. Something in her expression alerted him to another worry about to be shared.

'Uncle Napoleon' she began, 'I saw something happening over there that I think you should know about.' If she hadn't looked so serious, he might have smiled, but something told him this was not a smiling matter. 'Anya thought I hadn't noticed, but I saw her watching.

'Watching what, chicken?'

'No. Watching who, Uncle Napoleon' she replied firmly. 'A man came to that stand there where the cards are sold; he looked like an American. Not like you, Uncle, like Papa does when he runs in the winter, you know?' He did know. He had witnessed Kuryakin's entry into their office on a number of occasions when his runs had preceded an early morning start at work. He smiled fondly at the mental image conjured of his partner with a baseball cap rammed over the usually wild blond hair, grabbing his suit out of the tiny metal closet in the room and heading for the showers.

'The man was chewing and put some of the gum on a letter' Pascale continued, then he stuck it on that stand. And then another man came and took it away, only this man was dressed like you, Uncle.' Napoleon sighed.

'Did you know either of these men, chicken?'

'I didn't know the second man, but I recognised the first one. He is Anya's husband, I've seen a picture of him in her purse.'

Napoleon had compiled an almost perfect record of the movements of Sergei Arshavin over the last five days. Almost perfect, that was, until the few minutes before he noticed Anya and his two nieces picnicking under the trees at Castle Clinton. He had given over most of the grunt work to Section Three, but looking over the reports, he felt sure that there would be something happening and he wanted to be there when it did. He picked up the Russian outside the Consulate on 91st street that morning, following on from a Section Three agent tailing him from his home. He had followed a circuitous route into midtown, eventually ending up in a sports shop in a street off Broadway, hanging about until Arshavin emerged wearing the clothing Pascale had so accurately described. He had taken the subway line five down to Bowling Green station, where he had headed off at speed towards Battery Park. As they neared the Castle, it was only then that Napoleon had been 'taken out' by a man who barged into him, his briefcase causing Napoleon to trip and fall, the resulting melee of people round him preventing him from either pursuing Arshavin or taking a really close look at his attacker.

'The man who took the envelope, Chicken. What did he look like?' Napoleon cringed a little at having to question a child, particularly Kuryakin's child, about this, but needs must, as Illya had often said. Pascale seemed to take his questions very calmly, her brain digesting them and the answers always carefully measured when they came out, in the Kuryakin manner, Napoleon thought grimly.

'He looked a little like papa only taller, like you' she began, smiling a little, with a nice suit like papa sometimes wears when mama insists.'

'Uh-huh. But . . .'

'But he didn't have papa's lovely hair, Uncle Napoleon. It was brown, not as dark as mine, a sort of ordinary light brown, and, it was in one of those American styles that papa absolutely _hates_' she said vehemently, beginning to laugh a little at the thought of it. 'You know, where it stands up, flat?'

Napoleon thought for a moment.

'A flat top' he said, seeing Pascale nodding in agreement. Without doubt, this man had been the person who had knocked him flat. As he went down, he had glimpsed the man, and an image of that style had imprinted itself on his memory.

'I think you deserve an ice-cream' he said, grabbing Pascale's hand and walking towards the now screeching little girl by the kiosk.

xxxxxxxx

'Not bad. For now.' Illya frowned at the scales, and then at the immense bulk of the man facing him. It was pointless trying to lie, complain to or sweet talk Ingo Schoeneich, his trainer for some years and the man who knew his body almost as well as Therese did. Ingo slapped his hand onto the couch in front of them and Illya wearily climbed onto it, glad of the few moments respite between his training schedule and what he knew was about to be a gruelling half hour of sports massage.

'D'you think I can do it?' Illya said between his teeth as Ingo put his fingers into a particularly bad knot of muscles on Illya's shoulders.

'_Ja_, you can, just. If you follow my plan to the letter, _verstehen_?' the big man said, kneading Illya's back so deeply that it he had to bury his face in the coach to stop himself shouting out.

'_Verstehen' _he gasped, trying not to think of another week of intense physical exercise, strict dieting and this torture.

He had spoken to Waverly as soon as he was both conscious and free of infection, the old man patting his hand as he left in a manner which left Kuryakin feeling like a little boy who had been very brave. He smiled at it now, wondering whether he was being brave about the future or just recklessly foolhardy.

'You will need good upper body strength' Ingo cut into his thoughts, giving his upper arms a good slapping. 'Make sure that you don't do too much the first day; pace yourself' he added, starting to work mercilessly on Illya's lower back.

There was no doubt that the plant in Norway had to be investigated, whether, as Waverly said, it was genuine or fake. Whatever it was, it would yield clues and clues would eventually lead to discovery. Unfortunately, time was their enemy; the time left before Bolt would attempt another demonstration of her virus, and the time before she would make her move against him. Waverly had agreed that THRUSH would be cautious this time in trusting Bolt, and the likelihood was that a meeting would be held in order for their approval to be given. And after that? After that, the world would be a more dangerous place, and it was almost certain that it would be then that she would turn her attention to him. Time was also running out for Tess; the pregnancy was established but the time of the birth was difficult to predict and he had to be there for that.

He felt himself being lifted and turned over like a pancake in a pan, the German flipping him onto his back before commencing the meting out of torture involving his legs and hips.

'Oh by the way, there was a message for you from Medical' Ingo said, crunching his legs up towards his body. 'You can go and look at your baby' it said.' Illya opened his eyes. Ingo was grinning, rubbing a towel over his hands whilst he surveyed the less than perfect specimen of manhood in front of him. Illya frowned, then smiled.

'Thank you, Ingo. I'll see if I can crawl over there' he groaned, as Schoeneich continued to smile paternally at him.

They were waiting for him as he entered the room, Norman Shearer even sitting in an armchair at the side of the 'wonder wall' as someone had called it, now even more crammed full of signatures, poetry and images, some of which made him frown as he passed them. They had brought a machine into Tess' room and a nurse was rubbing a gel over her abdomen as Illya walked in, nodding to Shearer as he drew up a chair on the other side of her bed.

She leaned over slightly, drawing him up towards her a little.

'Mm. You smell nice. Thin but nice' she said, stroking her hand over the edge of his chin.

'And you look . . . fat but nice' he murmured, receiving a little slap on the cheek for his pains. She moved over in the bed, allowing him to sit next to her, and ignoring the tutting sound coming from the nurse attempting to carry out the ultrasound examination.

'We should be able to give you a better idea of how far the pregnancy has progressed' Shearer's voice cut in, 'bearing in mind the fact that Mrs Kuryakin kept it to herself for rather a long time.' Therese shrugged and smiled a little at Illya. She was certainly looking better, the cast on her arm having been replaced with a lighter one, which seemed to be similarly covered in signatures and drawings, Illya noticing with surprise Alexander Waverly's scrawled hand amidst various other legible and illegible names. They gazed at the tiny screen together as the nurse began to draw the ultrasound device over Tess' belly, Shearer coming up behind them to complete the group staring at the fuzzy black and white image in front of them.

After a few minutes of measuring, Shearer came round and stared at the screen again, conferring with the nurse and looking at the notes she had made. Illya began to feel a little tense, the letter in his jacket pocket reminding him that the results of his semen test given him that morning so far remained unopened. He forced his gaze back to Tess, who was now laid back on the pillows, her hair flowing down either side like brown waves on a white sea. He gently lifted the hair on the side of her head where she had hit the stairs, a small scar now surrounded by a thick layer of tiny brown hairs.

'It doesn't show' Tess whispered, 'unless you do that of course'. She looked at him and then stroked his fringe back from his earnest looking face.

'I can see that while you were sick this grew though' she said. He sighed.

'Yes, some things about me have improved, at least'.

Shearer cleared his throat, drawing their attention to the screen.

'All good news' he said clearly, gazing at the couple on the bed. It was hard to believe they were a married couple sometimes, he thought, let alone parents of so many children. They looked like a pair of children themselves; Hansel and Gretel caught in the Witch's cottage. Kuryakin, with his soft blond hair and intense eyes, and his wife, so disarmingly sweet. At least that is how they appeared.

'You'll be glad to know, at least I hope you'll be glad to know that it's just one baby' he said, raising his eyebrows. He saw Therese Kuryakin smile and imperceptibly squeeze her husband's hand. 'I estimate the foetus is about twenty six weeks gestation, so you should be delivered about the end of September, if the baby goes to full term that is.' He could almost see the cogs whirring in Kuryakin's mind, working out something. He let them digest what he'd said before adding, 'um, do you want to know what sex?'

'It's a girl.'

'Good guess, Mr Kuryakin, but then I suppose there is an even chance' Shearer replied.

'It wasn't a guess. I . . I knew, or that is to say, I felt sure' Illya said brightly, raising his eyebrows into the thick hair that hung across them.

It seemed rather out of character for the normally reserved Russian to speak in that way, Shearer thought. The nurse began to wheel the scan equipment out of the room, pressing a small image into Illya's hand before she left.

'You can take her home in two weeks' time' he said, smiling in spite of himself. 'But . . you must show me before then what measures you have put into place to ensure that you do not end up here again, until, that is you return to give birth to your . . um, daughter. Do you have a name?' he added, wondering why he seemed to being drawn into the spell the woman on the bed wove around her. She leaned across towards her husband, pulling him nearer, and then whispered something into his ear. Shearer saw his face soften and then a rare, sustained smile radiate from the impassive features.

'Yes, I think we do' he said.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 13

'You should be reaching the Stavanger Tau ferry soon, and then it's not such a long way; just along the _Ryfykevegen_ though the nature reserve and we're there.' Napoleon allowed himself a glance at his partner, the Russian intent on gazing at the large map on his knees which crackled slightly as Kuryakin folded it expertly to allow him a view of the road ahead.

'So you're talking to me again, then?' Illya's lips pursed fractionally before he removed his glasses and stowed them in the compartment in front of them.

'I wasn't aware I'd stopped talking to you.' There were a few moments of silence between them before Illya shifted in his seat slightly and began to stare out of the window. 'I needed time to think, Napoleon, and you gave it to me. If you thought I was upset with you over something, then I'm sorry' he said quietly.

'And have you sorted it out, in your head that is?'

'Perhaps. Well, a little' Illya replied, a wan smile passing fleetingly over his impassive face, reflecting ironically, Napoleon thought, the rather sparse landscape surrounding them.

They had left New York nearly a week after his encounter at Castle Clinton, Illya meeting him outside Medical the morning before with a look of barely concealed amusement on his face.

'You got through' Napoleon had said, looking him up and down and wondering how. It was true, he looked considerably better than he had even a week before that, but his spell in the isolation ward had been a setback and there was still a kind of gauntness about him that concerned his partner.

'Yes' Illya said triumphantly, waving a piece of paper in front of him. 'It's amazing how effective the lead weight holding down my mother's curtains can be when sown into the waist of one's underpants.'

'You didn't' Napoleon whispered, getting his answer from the now impossibly smug expression of his partner.

Kuryakin's good mood had lasted all through a large breakfast in the Commissary, right until they had sat down in Waverly's room and Napoleon had begun to report on the surveillance undertaken on Sergei Gregorovitch Arshavin. Illya had listened in calm silence until he had finished, only writing the odd note down on a yellow pad in front of him in his careful, rather old fashioned handwriting. Waverly had somehow divined his mood, refraining from commenting as well until the report had been delivered.

'Mr Kuryakin, perhaps you might like to share your thoughts with us' Waverly had almost murmured when Napoleon had sat down after explaining the route Arshavin had taken on the large city map displayed on the wall.

'I'd like to know why my children were taken to that place by Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina without any support from an UNCLE agent and entirely unbeknown to me' he began tersely. 'I only knew about it when I was given a message to pick up the twins from the crèche.' He turned slightly in his chair towards Napoleon then, his partner aware of his mood from the Russian's set features and piercing eyes holding his gaze. 'And then perhaps Mr Solo can explain why he interrogated my daughter, who, if I'm not mistaken is not an UNCLE agent when I last checked, and is only ten years old.'

Napoleon could see from Waverly's face that he was enjoying this rather too much.

'I'd be interested in that part of your mission too' he said in a rather dead-pan way, the two of them now both staring at Solo intently.

'Um, well as far as our protection of Mr Kuryakin's family is concerned, sir, we had to pull Mr McCaffery out that day owing to the fact that we had a larger than normal number of agents either engaged in the field or injured, including,' he added, giving Illya a stare back, 'Mr Kuryakin, and the collection of the microdot from our safe house in Brooklyn was given a higher priority.' He could feel Illya's expression without having to look. He rushed on, in the vain hope that Kuryakin would somehow consign this to the 'necessary actions taken for the freedom of mankind' drawer in the very neat filing cabinet of his mind.

'And my daughter?' Illya prompted him, his expression now giving Napoleon a distinct feeling of being played with.

'Your daughter's observational skills may have provided us with evidence of incalculable worth' Waverly said suddenly. Illya leaned forward in his seat and held his face between his hands, his elbows lightly resting on the table.

'Go on' he said gently.

Napoleon had recounted the incident, his collision with the unknown man and Pascale's detailed observations of the dead drop event.

'From what she said, I'm convinced now that Anya didn't know that was going to happen' he ended, leaning back and surveying his partner and his superior. 'Pascale told me that she thought Anya was shaken by seeing her husband, and he obviously made no attempt to speak to her. Which leads me to the conclusion, based on the evidence we have of Arshavin's movements that day, that he is dealing with person or persons unknown beyond the remit of his own government, or ours for that matter.'

Illya rubbed his hand over his head, creating the usual chaos with his now considerably longer hair, before smoothing it down again, a process Napoleon had witnessed frequently over the years and which alerted him to the fact that his partner was now trying to make sense of what was going on.

'Any ideas, Mr Kuryakin?' Waverly said after a few moments. 'I must say that although one would not want to rely on the evidence of children, your daughter showed remarkable powers of insight. I'm only sorry that she appears to have been drawn into this rather worrying incident.'

'She seemed pretty laid back about it' Napoleon added, watching his partner's face carefully. 'Oh, and the ice-cream helped of course.'

'So you are adding bribery to your crimes. You didn't have to get the chocolate out of Anastasiya; it was _everywhere_' Illya murmured, the beginnings of a smile appearing.

'I have to agree with Mr Solo' Illya continued, sitting up. 'I might be naïve here, but I still find it difficult to believe that Anya is involved in some plot, whatever that plot may be. On the other hand, Arshavin struck me as being someone who, let's say, sees an opportunity and uses it for his own advancement. Either way, we need to discover the identity of the man with the rather unfortunate haircut, don't you think?'

Napoleon fought hard to keep his face serious as he saw Illya's face register the word he had just used and its potential effect on his superior. As Waverly made no response, the Russian's shoulders relaxed and he exhaled slowly.

'Lucky that time, comrade' he whispered into the back of Illya's head. 'Using the '_h_' word in front of him, that's dangerous play. I'd exit the building before he thinks about that one.'

Napoleon continued driving, a comfortable silence now developing between them. Illya glanced at his watch, before opening the window and craning his head out and upwards.

'What are you doing?'

'Just checking.' He slumped back down in his seat and wound up the window. 'This is a very exposed road, but it feels like we're the only people on it; well, more like the only people on this part of the planet, don't you think?'

It certainly felt like it to Solo as well. There was a beauty about the place in its austerity; the road cut through the cropped grasslands, massive stone gullies providing a relief from the smattering of pines and silver birch along the route. At times the road turned, giving them spectacular views of silvery mountain ranges, sheer drops, misty vistas, and yet no other human company with which to share this dramatic natural landscape.

After they had negotiated the short ferry ride, the road had steadily climbed, until Kuryakin had put his hand on the wheel and said, 'stop when you can' reminding Solo of a driving instructor about to give him bad news.

'What is it?' he said, pulling the handbrake up rather more fiercely than he meant to. Kuryakin got out of the car and lifted up the tailgate, bringing back a backpack which he put unceremoniously between them. He handed Napoleon a small flask of some liquid which Solo presumed was going to help him in some way, before delving in the pack again and bringing out an assortment of food which Napoleon vaguely remembered him buying in a shop on the outskirts of Stavanger.

'Your driving has allowed us a short comfort break' Illya said sardonically, grimacing as he bit into a bar which looked as if it was made of congealed banana.

'What is that?'

'_Big boy_, the bar' Illya replied between mouthfuls. 'I can assure you that is the single most motivating aspect of my quest to regain my lost body weight so that I never, never have to eat this _govno_ again.'

After they had finished eating, Illya laid his head back on the car seat and Napoleon was convinced he had fallen asleep. He felt a sudden desperate need for a cigarette, a habit he had worked hard to kick since Illya had departed for Albania, leaving him with no-one except his wife to scold him into better ways. He felt in his jacket pocket and then silently began to open the door.

'No you don't. You need all your breath for what we have to do and besides which it affects semen count and motility.'

Napoleon slammed the door to and stared at his partner, now it seemed, fully awake and eating a real banana with relish.

'Napoleon, tell me honestly. Do you think I'm a selfish man?' Napoleon settled back in his seat. He could feel a long conversation coming on.

'Um, in what way exactly?' He knew immediately that this question was Illya's prologue for a much more well-defined problem that was churning through the Kuryakin brain.

'In the Commissary the other day; all that back-slapping and hand-shaking that I had to endure, because it appears everyone in UNCLE is grateful to me for saving future generations, well at least their future generations.'

'Everyone was grateful. You are now officially 'Russian agent of the month''

'Very funny, since I am the _only_ Russian agent in our New York office. Seriously Napoleon. When I realised that I was infected by that virus and had effectively isolated myself, I have to confess that I felt a sense of . . . well, relief.' Napoleon looked at the Russian, still lying back on the seat with his eyes closed.

'Let me guess. You were relieved because it solves the little 'generation' problem of your own, albeit in a rather extreme way. Now you don't have to worry that New York will be overrun by hordes of blond haired blue eyed geniuses bearing the name Kuryakin.'

Illya sighed rather audibly.

'Crudely put, as ever, but yes, I suppose so. I love my family, but this whole Bolt thing has made me think that I have been selfish in thinking I could, what do you say, _have my cake and eat it.'_

'You're not telling me that you regret marrying Tess and having the kids, are you?' Illya opened his eyes and sat up.

'I don't know. When I think of my life it seems madness to have a family, but when I think of them, well . . .my life would be nothing, Napoleon, nothing without them, without _her_.'

_And that is exactly what Lee-Hua Bolt knows too_ Napoleon thought grimly.

'Illya, you are a better agent, a better man than you were before that girl with the gorgeous hair walked past your window. All of us have families, for God's sake; even the unmarried ones have a mom and dad or brothers and sisters that someone could use against them. And remember, I hate to say it, but the issue with Bolt goes back further than you. Her obsession is with Tess and what Tess can give her. This is about Bolt's legacy, her wanting a next generation.'

'Possibly. I mean, you're right, Napoleon. As ever.'

They sat silently for a short while, the wind rocking the car slightly.

'I think Arshavin has linked up somehow with Bolt.' Napoleon began again. 'I think the information about the virus from the USSR . . .'

'came from her. Of course. But what you have to ask yourself is, Napoleon, what is in it for Arshavin?'

'And, despite what you say, comrade, how is the lovely Lieutenant Colonel involved? She must be, Illya, I just can't believe she doesn't know anything about his plans.' Illya frowned, and then opened the door.

'If she is involved, she will have been persuaded that it is in the interests of serving the state' he said seriously. I cannot believe that she is involved with Bolt.'

He walked away towards some large flat rocks on a headland in front of them.

'She may not be, but she is involved, comrade' Napoleon muttered to himself, and I think whatever she's doing, she's doing it because of someone; someone very, very dear to her.'

xxxxx

Napoleon looked at his watch as he followed his partner across a series of widening flat rocks towards the rock face known as_ Preikestolen_. 'Pulpit rock'Illya had translated it on the map he had spread out on the roof of the car, before he had stowed it in his backpack and set off at a determined pace across the sparse, silent landscape in front of them. Although it was still daylight, the mist and the immense mountain range around them combined to give Napoleon a sense of unease. Only the incessant sound of water gurgling across the stones to their side broke the silence. Napoleon shuddered slightly and pulled up the collar of his jacket before increasing his pace to keep up with the man in front of him.

As they neared the edge, he could hear voices. The proximity of the fjord appeared to have an effect on the atmosphere, the sun breaking through to bathe the flat rocks in a kind, warm light. Illya was standing talking to a tall dark haired man as Napoleon approached, the taller man handing the Russian something and then pointing downwards.

'Napoleon, this is Erik Nerby from our Oslo office' Illya said cheerfully. 'Erik has the suits and will give you a few hints about the jump, seeing that you missed the refresher course last year.' Napoleon snarled slightly in the direction of his partner, before shaking hands with the Norwegian.

'They'll be a reception party down there' he said, pointing again. 'We have some intelligence about the pharmaceutical plant, but not much, I'm afraid.'

They watched Illya strip off his outer garments, before sliding himself into the jumping suit, the wide, bat-like arms flapping round his body as the wind suddenly gusted across the rocks. Nerby frowned slightly as they stood there, before turning and giving Napoleon his suit.

'He looks as if he's lost weight' he murmured, as Illya approached.

'Do you think it'll affect the jump?' Nerby smiled.

'Unlikely. He's a daredevil that one.' He pulled out another suit from the backpack slung down between them and began to climb into it, adjusting Napoleon's suit before looking Illya up and down as he came up to them.

'You go first and then Mr Solo and I will follow. And don't do anything clever, understand? There's a camp set up below where you can get some rest for a few hours before the trip across the fjord. Sunset is at 22.41 hours and sunrise at 04.00 hours, so there is only a narrow corridor for your journey.'

Illya walked past them and leaned over the edge of the cliff. The drop sheered away from him until, six hundred metres below, it plateaued out into a wide flat area of scrubland and grass making a point out towards the fjord. He rammed his helmet on and re-joined his partner and Nerby, the Norwegian obviously describing something to Napoleon using a swooping action with his hand.

'I was just telling Napoleon to aim for the grassy area to the right of the point' he said, adjusting his helmet.

' Ah yes, Napoleon, make sure you don't go too far' Illya replied, his eyes twinkling slightly underneath the helmet. It would be a shame if you landed in all that cold water.'

'I'm looking forward to it' Napoleon replied, ignoring Illya's smirk. 'But what I don't really understand is why we're doing it at all, when the plant is accessible by both land and sea.'

'Accessible, but with difficulty. There are no roads, and we still haven't worked out if there is any other way of leaving seaward except via the quay at the front of the building. The reason our intelligence on Pedersen Industries is so, well, basic' Nerby said, 'is because for reasons you may later find out, they are very anxious to know exactly who is approaching their plant. For a small pharmaceutical company they seem to have some pretty sophisticated devices to record exactly who gets anywhere near. They have the sea access from Lysefjord Marina pretty tied up; your only chance of arriving unannounced is from this side of the fjord.' He sighed and looked across at what appeared to be just another towering column of rock the other side of the calm expanse of water below them.

'I know this may sound rather strange, but if I didn't know better, I'd say they've designed this whole thing.'

'As if they want us to come in this way?' Illya said, glancing at Napoleon.

'Exactly. They seem more concerned about knowing _who_ is going to look round their factory rather than preventing them from getting in' Nerby said.

'Much as I don't like the sound of this at all' Napoleon said, 'we don't really have a choice, so shall we get on with it before someone over _there_ starts wondering what three guys dressed up like overlarge crows are doing over _here_.'

Nerby made a final check of the parachutes before signalling to Illya. The Russian took a few steps back, and then with a short run launched himself off the rock face, his body catching the wind for a few seconds before with a certain grace, he made a back flip in the air and then, arms and legs spread out, shot down and away from them towards the jutting coast below.

'There. Did you see that?' Nerby said, grinning. 'Daredevil.'

The sound of the wind roaring in his ears was immense as Illya felt the ground below trying to suck him up as he hurtled towards it. An eternity of time passed as his body became one with the elements, until the sound and drag of the parachute broke his descent and he glided towards a blur of grass and stone which rapidly rose to meet him. He struggled to his feet and began to remove the harness; a feeling of total exhilaration filling his chest as he finally stood still and gazed upward at the two figures plummeting downward after him.

Napoleon landed smoothly, Nerby coming in by his side like a pair of giant vultures flapping as they spied their prey. Illya could see that his partner had felt at least something of the same thrill in the dive as he had.

'Thank you Erik; that was an excellent dive' Illya said enthusiastically, freeing his hair from the confines of the helmet.

'Yeah, we both enjoyed seeing your little tumble turns' Napoleon said, glancing at Erik, who grinned before walking off towards a little group of tents on the edge of the grassy area. They followed the Norwegian, the smell of something delicious cooking rapidly increasing Illya's gait.

In front of the little circle of tents a small open fire was burning, upon which a large pot hung from a metal structure above it. Napoleon sat down gratefully, wondering how long the Russian would last out before exhaustion overcame him. He had guessed correctly that the jump had enlivened him, but now he looked a little grey, the gauntness that Napoleon had noticed in New York returning to haunt his features. A very blonde Norwegian girl had given him what looked like a very large portion of something approximating to a stew.

'_Lapskaus_' Illya said with difficulty between mouthfuls. It's a bit like _Lob Scouse_ we have at home. Actually it sounds like it too, that's interesting.' Napoleon raised his eyebrows and began to eat. It was indeed a similar dish to that served up in the Kuryakin kitchen, a wonderful concoction of meat and vegetables, the contents of which he was too tired and too hungry to worry about. By the time he had finished he saw that Kuryakin was well into a huge piece of some kind of fruit loaf, the blonde Norwegian being very attentive to the blond Russian. A rather attractive looking red-haired girl appeared with a similar cake at that moment.

'_Julecake_' she whispered rather seductively, as if it were some kind of sensual object. To celebrate the month of course.'

'Of course' Napoleon replied, smiling.

They had refused the second round of beer, Illya almost dragging himself up and walking heavily towards the tent.

'It's eight o'clock, so we'll wake you at one' Nerby promised, pointing at a tent already laid out with two sleeping bags which Illya was looking longingly at. 'The equipment will be ready and we're sending one of our training staff with you across the fjord.' They both stared into the tent. Kuryakin had somehow managed to squirm into his sleeping bag and was already asleep, one arm above his head, the other wedged slightly under the sleeping bag in its usual ready position.

'Does he always fall asleep that easily?' Nerby asked.

'This is exceptionally fast, but generally yes' Napoleon said. 'Oh, by the way Erik, the other guy – do we know him?' Nerby smiled.

'Yes, and it's a girl. It's Jolanta.'

'Oh God' Napoleon said, glancing at his now sweetly snoring partner. 'Don't worry; I'll break it to him when we wake up.'

xxxxxxxxx

Anya stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened, but it was only the faint sounds of distant traffic that drifted in and disturbed the peace of the house; no-one on the inside stirred. She turned away and began to pick up up several pairs of shoes that had become detached from the ordered rows on the floor of the armoire standing guard in the hallway.

The contents of the wardrobe were like any other; several coats now hanging redundant over the summer on one side, the other half a series of shelves containing a mixture of hats, gloves and scarves laid out carefully for their various owners. She pulled out a fur hat with flaps either side, obviously Illya's, and without thinking, pressed it to her nose, the fur giving off a faint musky odour, combined with something she felt to be unmistakeably his smell, though if asked, she would have found it difficult to describe. She shook her head and returned the hat to its place, aware of a small box like structure hidden away behind it.

Feeling round the smooth wood, her fingers eventually located a catch. Anya smiled and pressed down, rewarded by the sight of a small drawer shooting forward towards her.

'A useful little hiding place, Illyusha' she murmured, fingering the small selection of weapons carefully wedged into a series of small compartments within the drawer. She had made a cursory search of the house, but, apart from this, she had concluded that whatever else was hidden there was beyond her ability to find.

A sharp rapping sound on glass coming from somewhere in the basement momentarily froze her hand on the drawer. Frowning, she carefully shut it and returned the hat to its former position, before hurrying silently down the stairs to the kitchen below. She could see the shadow of a man by the kitchen door, his features obscured but his height and bulk indicating his gender. Anya mentally ticked off a list of possible callers in her head, discounting anyone from UNCLE or any friends of the Kuryakins; knowing that they would use the upstairs door and not this one. Whoever this caller was, he knew that using this door meant that nobody sleeping upstairs would be disturbed.

Anya reached back and felt the cold metal of her gun, drawing it out silently as she approached the door. She pressed the switch on the video and sighed deeply before opening the door.

'What are you doing here? Are you mad?' she hissed, swinging open the door before turning on her heel and walking away into the kitchen. Sergei Arshavin slipped through the door and closed it silently, before following her. He gave her a cursory look before glancing round the room, now suddenly come to life as Anya switched on the lights. Compared to the well-equipped but utterly functional suite of rooms they occupied, this room was a statement of exuberant family living. It had once been two rooms, that was obvious, but now it was one very large one, the kitchen part at one side, the rest devoted to a very large table and an equally large dresser fixed against the far wall, groaning with an assortment of china, bowls of fruit and other, smaller pictures propped against the cheerful plates and cups. On one wall, a galaxy of drawings and paintings were stuck up in no particular order, some by an obviously childish hand, among which photographs of children and adults were interposed. Arshavin stared at the photos. It was hard to believe that the man who had sat in his apartment was the same one who was pictured here.

'Is this Polina?' he said, breaking the silence between them. Anya walked over, and stood next to him.

'Yes, but I would have thought you could have worked that out, seeing that she is so like her father. And this is Pablo, the adopted boy' she continued, pointing at a picture of the child she had last seen lying so still in the Medical wing at UNCLE. Here he sat with an intense look on his face, playing his beloved cello, his father just behind him at the piano. Arshavin sniffed and pointed at a picture to its right.

'These are obviously his' he said, stabbing with his finger at the twins. It was Anya's favourite picture. They were held by their father, their pudgy hands both gripping his neck, his expression one of mock suffering at this double torment inflicted on him.

'This is Anastasiya, their older sister' Anya continued, smiling at the sight of the ever lively little girl playing in the garden, her red hair lit up by the sunshine.

'They do not look well disciplined' Arshavin offered. 'But that will change.' Anya stared at him, a dead feeling in the pit of her stomach confirming her opinion of the man she had married in the mistaken belief that somehow the man smiling at her on the wall could be erased from her heart if not her memory.

'They are good children' she replied flatly, noticing that he was now staring fixedly at a photograph stuck next to a rather wild painting in reds and yellows with the title 'Summer by Tasiya' written on it.

'The mother?' he said, continuing to stare at the photograph.

'Yes.' Anya could see that he was transfixed by the image. She was at some kind of function, her hair put up into a sort of Grecian style, which suited the amazing sea blue dress she wore. Anya had asked her about it, and she'd told her it was a special dress designed by Fortuny, the silk pleated in a special way to show the curves of her body to perfection.

Anya walked away, back to the kitchen area, and began to fill the percolator with water.

'So, you came just to know what his family looks like, or is there another reason you are here Sergei Gregorovitch?' she said acidly, not turning in his direction. There was a slight pause before he turned and came towards her.

'Anya, there has been a slight change of plan. It has become necessary to execute our orders in the next few days. And we will be repatriating two of the children. Here are your instructions. Make sure they are carried out to the letter. Do you understand?'

Anya clenched the worktop, feeling her fingers whiten with the effort.

'Sergei, may I ask who these orders come from? Can I remind you that I outrank you and that if you do not give me a satisfactory answer I will be forced to contact Moscow for clarification.' She felt him behind her, the proximity of his body threatening her.

'_Clarification_? My dear Anya let me make this absolutely clear to you. If you contact Moscow or anyone in the Consulate for that matter, then your erstwhile lover will have but a very short time to spend on this earth once he returns from his mission. If you remember, Anya, this was the arrangement. Kuryakin is kept alive on condition you assist me in this operation. And then we will see who outranks who, shall we not?'

Arshavin picked up the umbrella he had placed on the table.

'What is that?' he said, glancing over into the corner.

'Isn't it obvious? That is their cat. Tasiya found her in that storm we had a few days ago, so we have adopted her. Her name is Rusalka. You remember, Sergei, the story of the water nymph? Tasiya is very fond of her.' The cat, a large bordering on huge grey tabby, was asleep in a large box, its body curled in a perfect arc round itself, the thick grey tail slightly twitching in time to its steady breathing. Arshavin watched it for a few moments.

'If you doubt me, Anya, let me provide you with a small demonstration of how easy it is to rid oneself of vermin.'

Before she could move, he had pointed the umbrella towards the cat, its end just barely touching her neck. There was only a slight click before the cat seemed to leap up, then collapse down into the box.

'_Nyet, Nyet_! Anya screamed, lifting the cat's body. Her lifeless form was warm beneath Anya's grasp still, but her beautiful bushy tail hung limply, trailing behind the inert body in her hands.

'_Mu'dak_' she hissed, looking up at him, then laying the dead animal gently back in her box. He grasped her arm and wrenched her up, forcing her against the wall.

'Follow my instructions, or your dear Illyusha follows the way of Rusalka. Do you understand? You have three days to prepare.' He picked up the umbrella and drew out a piece of paper and lay it on the table, putting a large red child's building brick on top.

'Make sure you destroy that when you're read it, Anya. We wouldn't want our friends at UNCLE to be party to your orders, would we?'

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

'_Little_, wake up; you know you can't function properly until you've had breakfast.'

Illya turned over on his side and blinked, staring at the obviously wide awake face of his partner.

'D'you know, I just had a dream with nightmarish tendencies, where Jolanta was trying to wake me up.' He yawned then sat up. 'D'you remember her? You know, the one with the . . .' Solo coughed slightly and indicated the entrance to the tent with his head.

'Um, I think the nightmare has just assumed a rather real life tinge' he murmured.

'Jolanta? ' Illya said incredulously, standing too quickly to avoid banging his head on the tent pole above him.

'At your service,_ Little_.' Illya scrambled up the tent and out, forcing his boots on his feet before coming upright in front of the woman standing towering over him. She was easily six feet tall, her slim build accentuating her height. In the dark, she looked just as she had when he had met her first at Survival School; dark hair, dark eyes, always a hint of a smile on her face, as if everything was just faintly funny. She had given everyone a nickname; his she used openly, with the medial sound extended by her Hungarian English accent into a long 'ee' sound, more like _'leetle'_ than '_little_'.

'Don't call me that' he said rather abruptly. He could see that she was only faintly abashed by his tone. She pursed her lips at him and then suddenly caught hold of his hand.

'Come on, let's eat and then you can tell me all about what you have been doing with yourself for the past five years . . _little_.'

Napoleon walked behind them at a distance, wondering why she had so obviously ignored him. He knew Kuryakin and Jolanta had been together in Survival School, but she had shown very little interest in him beyond teasing him unmercifully about his height. Illya had been in what Napoleon always referred to as his '_noli me tangere' _period where, apart from a few exceptions like Marion, he had acted as if women were something to be guarded against rather than enjoyed and embraced, as Napoleon had so amply demonstrated to his stone-faced partner.

Jolanta Kiss had been blessed with an unforgettable name as well as an unforgettable physique. She had only worked with them once, not long after Illya and he had been partnered. Kuryakin had spent most of the time crawling round a very large and very subterranean THRUSH facility in Czechoslovakia, setting the explosives that had detonated so spectacularly while Jolanta and Napoleon were literally masquerading as guests at a fancy dress ball being held in the castle directly above. They had made their way back to Vienna, Napoleon and Jolanta having the benefit of a few stolen days in the Austrian Capital before Kuryakin eventually arrived, slightly battered, but more or less intact. They had parted on the station platform at Vienna, the men to another assignment in France, and Jolanta to West Germany, where she was based. He had attempted to contact her on a few occasions after that, but she had never been available, Solo eventually being told that she had been re-assigned in UNCLE at least for a temporary period. After that, he, and time had moved on and he only wondered about her sporadically, thinking that one day they would meet again. And now here she was, but this time it was the Russian who seemed to be the centre of her attention.

He followed the two shadowy figures in front of him towards a small outcrop of stone where something was cooking on a small field stove placed on one of the large smooth rocks. Erik Nerby emerged from the dark and handed him a plate of scrambled egg and smoked salmon. He could see Illya, his breakfast being consumed rapidly as Jolanta leaned over him, talking animatedly and thrusting a large mug of something hot in his direction. Napoleon finished his meal and, grabbing his mug from Erik, advanced towards the pair. Jolanta looked across at him, her expression subtly changing from pain to disdain, before she murmured something and walked away.

'Is it something I said, or is there something about you that Miss Kiss now finds riveting?' Napoleon asked, sipping his coffee.

'Since you haven't actually spoken to her, I don't think it's the former' Illya replied, looking in the direction the Hungarian had disappeared off to. 'I get the impression that she is studiously ignoring you, which must be an unusual experience for you, Napoleon.'

Napoleon directed a tight smile in his direction, and then grew serious.

'I'm puzzled too that she's all over me and giving you the cold shoulder' Illya said. 'I'll try and find out what's going on; otherwise I can see this little adventure is going to be rather uncomfortable, and I'm not talking about the water.' Napoleon nodded and walked on towards the inky blackness beyond the edge of the fjord, where he could see Jolanta and Nerby standing.

They changed into wetsuits in the open, none of them concerned at seeing each other without clothes on. Jolanta worked silently, placing a number of packages into a large bag which she strapped onto the back of her kayak. Nerby drew the two agents aside, unfolding a waterproof map and indicating the layout of the factory with a tiny beam from his torch.

'Look carefully. You need to disable the closed circuit cameras to avoid getting yourself added to their TV footage. Apparently, there are no security staff onsite at night, only two engineers who are there in case the machinery plays up. When we went for our tour posing as new pharmaceutical representatives, they boasted that the facility was impregnable. It makes you wonder however, why a pharmaceutical company needs to be impregnable.'

'What reason did they give?' Illya interrupted, staring at the map.

'What we expected. They have to protect their research.'

'So if the facility is impregnable, how do we get in?' Napoleon asked, glancing at two photographs Nerby had handed him.

The first image appeared to be just a sheer rock face rising out of the sea; Napoleon peered closely at it, and could see that there was a constructed jetty running along the side of the cliff, where there appeared to be several craft of varying sizes moored. The second photo was astonishing in comparison. It was as if the rock had been peeled back to reveal an entrance, a massive expanse of steel and glass, with two enormous metal pipes protruding at the side.

Napoleon stared at one photo and then the other. The pipes were obviously some sort of ventilation system, presumably with an outlet through the rock for when it was drawn over at night.

'Gee, it's like a giant rock curtain' he muttered, handing them to Illya. The Russian's eyebrows disappeared under his fringe as he stared at them.

'Contact lenses OK?' Napoleon ventured, seeing him slightly squint at the map.

'Uh-huh, unless I come into contact with water, then I'll be sunk . . literally' he replied. 'So, Erik; any ideas about how we get in?'

'I hung about when we were leaving and watched them close up' Nerby replied. 'I relieved this from the guard. If you direct it about here', he pointed to an area of rock low down on the right, 'then you should have _open sesame'_.

'That was lucky' Illya said rather sardonically, squinting at the pen-like object Nerby handed him. It was no bigger than a large bullet, but black, and with a small button-like mechanism at one end. Illya wrapped it in the waterproof bag Nerby gave him and then shoved it up the sleeve of his wet suit.

'I don't like this' Napoleon said quietly, looking at the other two, and noticing that Jolanta had stayed by the kayaks with her back to them. 'Surely the two engineers will be aware that we are about to come in by the front door? Isn't there any other, less obvious way to enter?' Nerby shook his head.

'There may be, but we weren't shown it and it's not indicated on the map. I'm sure the engineers will know you've arrived, Napoleon, but . ..

'We can deal with them' Illya said coldly. 'But I agree with Napoleon; this is far too easy. Only two men in the place, not even guards, and, it seems, a comparatively simple way to gain entry. I wouldn't be surprised if we find some boxes in the foyer marked 'for the attention of UNCLE' at this rate.'

'Perhaps' Nerby said, 'but until we have different orders we just have to get on with it and follow the leads. Jolanta has the explosive and the charges already packed, so you should be able to complete your mission without bringing half the mountain down, if you're as good as Jolanta says you are.'

'He is' Napoleon said, taking the plans and stowing them inside his wet suit.

'You're not going to get those wet, are you' Illya said out of the side of his mouth as they walked towards the kayaks.

'No; I took the kayak refresher course, remember?'

Jolanta was already in the water as they slid down and adjusted the footrests in their kayaks. Napoleon saw Erik throw something at Illya, who grabbed it in mid-air, and with a smile rammed what turned out to be a black swimming cap on his head.

'Don't want to light up Norway' Nerby shouted, as they turned the craft and headed out into the dark silence of the fjord. The darkness had a kind of density to it that made Napoleon wish that his partner had left the hat off. Jolanta was already paddling at speed, the two agents working hard to keep up with her pace. The sound of the paddles cutting the water was the only relief from the claustrophobic silence that enveloped them as they moved towards the distant bank. Napoleon concentrated on the back of his partner, the rhythmic pattern of Illya's shoulders as he drove the paddles into the shadowy fjord's depths. At one point, Illya glanced back, the paleness of his face apparent against his dark garments, then he turned again and the relentless swish of the paddles continued.

After what seemed like a long while, the rock face opposite loomed into view, the jetty following its line, a couple of small boats looped onto some wooden posts set equidistantly from each other along its wooden path. Jolanta stopped paddling and signalled to Illya and Napoleon, pointing towards a narrow mast affixed to the edge of the cliff. Two small rectangular boxes were fastened on, each pointing up and down the fjord. Napoleon came alongside Illya's kayak, the Russian grasping his partner's craft to prevent it travelling further.

'Convenient for us' Illya said. 'I am getting the distinct feeling of being manipulated.' Following Jolanta, they glided slowly until they were within ten metres of the jetty.

'Make sure you hold on to the towing ropes' she whispered. 'They're long enough to keep the kayaks out of the sight of the cameras.' Illya began to climb out of his craft, the kayak rocking gently as he slid into the water.

'Come on, Napoleon, this is your favourite part' he said, his head bobbing by the side of Napoleon's kayak. Napoleon gave him a withering smile before sliding out of the boat and into the water.

It was incredibly cold, even with the wet suit on. He tried to ignore the feeling of shock travelling through his body as he swam silently behind Kuryakin, who seemed to be gliding across the water in front of him. Jolanta had already reached the jetty and had withdrawn something which had been strapped to her wetsuit. There was slight cracking sound followed by a shower of glass as the camera facing upstream was disabled by her shot.

'Stay this side of the post' she whispered, before yanking Illya out of the water and then walking off towards the rock face with the backpack on her shoulder. Illya leaned over and pulled Napoleon out, blinking slightly before wiping his eyes with his hat.

'Found out anything?' Napoleon asked between chattering teeth, staring at the Hungarian.

'Hardly. When we get in, you deal with the engineers and I'll take her along to the labs. Perhaps we can sort it out by the time you return.' Napoleon nodded, unzipping his wetsuit to get out the plans.

'I'd like to know at the very least why she left Section Two' he replied. Contrary to what you think, I can live with not every woman in the world worshipping me, but I'd sure like to know why she's doing this job now rather than the one she was trained for.'

'Perhaps she wanted something more nine to five' Kuryakin offered, straight faced. 'You know, Monday to Friday, regular work, friendly colleagues, no-one shooting at you. I can relate to that.' Napoleon stared at him.

'Yeah, sure' he said, raising his eyebrows.

Jolanta was waiting at the rock face, staring at it and shaking her head.

'I cannot see anything' she said, turning and looking at Illya. 'I would be grateful if you could wave your magic wand, Little, and then we could move inside and get warm.' Illya sighed and fished inside his wetsuit, pulling out the black cylinder. Pointing it at the spot on the rock Nerby had indicated, he slowly pressed the button on the end. There was a short hiatus, before, with a deep creaking sound, the whole mountain face seemed to move back slightly and then part, either side disappearing into the craggy mountain either side. Kuryakin shrugged and then stepped forward, pushing gently at one of the glass doors, which opened inwards, to his surprise.

'Well I guess with that in front, they don't need a lock on the door' Napoleon said, following him through.

They stood together for a moment, even Illya frozen by the structure in front of him. 'I believe it was a bunker created in the Second World War' Jolanta said.

'Apparently the back-up generators are reconditioned U-boat engines' she added, raising one eyebrow at Illya.

'How very resourceful of them' he replied, glancing round.

From their view at the entrance, it was an impressive sight indeed. The original structure of the bunker remained intact, including a series of heavy metal doors leading into rooms either side of the long main corridor which intersected the entrance hall they were standing in. Into this cave like structure a futuristic design of metal and glass had been overlaid, which stretched away in front of them. An open staircase led to a suspended glass corridor leading in the distance to a circular room of considerable proportions, clearly shown on the plans Napoleon withdrew from his wetsuit.

'This here must be some kind of central command area' he whispered, pointing at the hexagonal shape on the map, 'and this underneath is the main factory. The laboratories have to be here, above us on this corridor.'

'So where are the engineers?' Illya asked, taking the backpack from Yolanta and hefting it onto his shoulders.

'Well, I would guess they might be in that little room marked 'engineers room' Napoleon replied. Kuryakin sighed and grabbed Yolanta by the arm.

'Well, we'll take the laboratories and perhaps you could be kind enough to deal with the Engineers since you know where to find them' he added, moving away towards a heavy door at the end of their corridor. Napoleon withdrew his gun, which had been safely stowed in the small black backpack he'd been wearing, and loaded a clip of sleep darts into its magazine.

The corridor he found himself in was considerably larger than the one they had emerged from. Above him, an astonishing tunnel made of steel and glass snaked through the upper part of the rocky passageway, finally connecting with a striking, hexagonal structure suspended high above the star shaped factory floor. He forced himself to turn away from it and head in the opposite direction towards the gently whirring sound of the two immense generators, and beyond them, to the room where he hoped to find the engineers.

'Are they here?'

'Yes Haakon, they are here. The blond and the girl have disappeared up to the laboratories, and we have the pleasure of the dark one heading this way.'

Magnus Froiland stared at the figure rapidly approaching them, and then turned off the screen of the monitor and swung it down into the desk, clicking the hard wood cover into place as it disappeared. He looked round, a sly smile creasing his face as he mentally checked out the room. Now that the monitor had gone, it gave all the appearances of a straightforward engineers' office, one side of the room stacked with a variety of tools and instruments necessary for the repair and maintenance of the two U-boat engines that he and Haakon had lovingly restored and installed when the factory had been converted. He hoped that the man about to burst into their room was going to follow the game plan that had been outlined to him by Miss Pedersen only that morning. She had assured him that at the worst, he and Haaken might be tied up or perhaps taken prisoner.

'They don't like to cause unnecessary suffering' she had said, but the expression on her face had worried him. However, they had agreed to the plan, and a fat wad of kroners in his jacket pocket was encouraging him to believe that what she said was true.

'Did you pick up the remaining Code Sigma drugs?' he said to Lorig's back, the bigger man still loading tools into a small metal box on an empty shelf above the sink in the corner of the room. There was a slight pause before he slammed the tool box shut and turned, his face looking a little flushed.

'Of course. They're in the submersible.' He turned back and spun the numbers on the box's lock, before shoving it in the cupboard beneath the sink. The two men drew out chairs and Froiland pulled out a pack of cards from his jacket and spread them on the table in front of them.

'Might as well look as if we're occupied' he muttered, beginning to gather up the stack and shuffle them expertly. He was about to deal when the door opened.

'Sorry to interrupt the game, boys' Napoleon began, indicating them to stand with his gun as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. He glanced round the room, frowning at its lack of surveillance equipment. A roll of duct tape caught his eye.

'You, get the tape and wrap it round your friend's hands.' He watched as one of the engineers, a burly blond with a rather flushed face, grabbed the tape and started to bind his partner's hands behind his back.

'Now, if you wouldn't mind . . .'. Napoleon indicated with his gun that the blond man should turn, before he placed it on the table and proceeded to bind his hands too. Napoleon retrieved his gun and perched on the table in front of the two men.

'OK, so we have a little while before my colleagues get back, so perhaps you'd like to fill me in with exactly what goes on here, and what would be really helpful, how exactly the people who don't want to be seen get to and from this place.'

xxxxxxxxx

Illya stood in the corridor, waiting for Jolanta to complete laying the explosives he'd given her. He looked at his watch, and then began to walk towards the hexagonal room suspended above the factory floor in the complex. The room itself was entirely glass walled, the floor made of some soft spongy material on which was printed a veritable universe of galaxies against the deep grey background. He picked up one of the chairs ranged round the edge of the room, raising his eyebrows at its lightness and web like design. Putting it down again, he advanced towards a hexagonal revolving pillar in the centre of the room. Each side contained an identical set of instruments topped by a screen, enabling whoever was in the room to participate in whatever went on here. For once, he felt some tinge of regret at the destruction of this place, but other, darker images and memories soon pushed any hesitation he had out of his mind.

'Finished?' He sensed Jolanta behind him, and turned, watching her technique with the explosives he had spent long hours teaching her to perfect what seemed like a lifetime ago. She nodded and then went over to the edge of the room, looking down onto the silent factory floor.

'Solo. He is married now? Or is that just a piece of wish fulfilment to keep us European girls out of the game' she said, her usual smile noticeably absent.

'He's married and has a son' Illya replied simply, guessing that she didn't want more than that.

'And is he happy?' she continued after a few moments, still not moving from her position at the glass wall.

'Yes. He is happy.' Illya walked over and sat down on one of the chairs next to her, waiting. At last, she turned away and sat down, her face showing the conflict Illya imagined going on inside.

'So, your daughter; the one born to the Frenchwoman. Does your English wife love her as much as she loves the other little ones?' Illya frowned, thinking of Pascale, remembering with a certain shame, the mixture of emotions he felt when her existence was discovered.

'Well of course you'd have to ask her, but I think she loves her more. We love all the children of course, but Pablo and Pascale, well Tess chose to love them, if you understand what I mean.'

Jolanta knelt down and suddenly put her head onto Illya's lap.

'Whatever it is, you must talk to him about it.' He began to stroke her hair, in the same way he had stroked Tasiya's after she had told him about the man with scary eyes.

'Perhaps.'

xxxxxx

Napoleon looked at his watch. He had spent some time listening to the Engineers perpetually rehearsing their story of not knowing anything, until he had decided his patience was wearing thin. He reached for his gun, removed the sleep darts and loaded a live clip into its magazine. He watched their startled gaze with amusement out of the corner of his eye, followed by a rather heated exchange between them in Norwegian, until Napoleon cleared his throat loudly and rapped the table with his gun.

'So, what is it to be? You can choose, gentlemen. If you give me the information I've asked you for, being the gentleman I am, I might consider giving you the chance to leave the building before it explodes into the mountain from whence it came.'

'And if we refuse?' the smaller, darker man asked, his head nervously switching between his colleague and the man waving the gun in front of him. Napoleon sighed and made a small grimace.

'We-el, as I said, I am a gentleman, but my friend who should be coming down the corridor anytime now, well, he's not so gentlemanly. He may appear quite civilised on the outside, but I have to tell you that inside, you see . . .' He came up to the blond Norwegian and whispered something in his ear. After blanching to the shade of cold porridge, there followed another frantic exchange between the two men only silenced by the sound of footsteps in the corridor.

Jolanta walked in, the engineers' eyes now riveted towards the door. There was a strangled scream from the darker one as Illya paused in the doorway, an explosive charge in his hand.

'There's a submersible waiting in the underground quay' Lorig shouted, his eyes pleading with Solo. 'Don't let him near us, you promised us!' Illya stared at Napoleon for a moment, and then a slow smile began to warm up his face. He lifted up the charge, a lupine expression transforming his features as he looked from one man to the other.

'Who's going to be first then?' he said.

'Darling, you said you'd never do that again' Jolanta said lasciviously, stroking his hair with her long fingers as she looked from one of the engineers to the other. Illya turned to her, and then looked back at the men.

'I know, but it's so . . . stimulating' he said, his fingers beginning to tap the explosives with a steady rhythm.

They moved in a single line down the corridor, the two Norwegians sandwiched between the UNCLE agents, Jolanta walking at their side, her gun trained in the engineers' direction. Napoleon could see that the dawn was in the very first stages of breaking as they reached the huge glass doors at the entrance, thin shards of light slicing the darkness of the night, as if the daylight was forcing its way in through cracks in the night sky. The blond engineer nodded at a metallic cylindrical pillar in the entrance lobby.

'You got in here with something; you need it for that too.' Illya reached inside his wetsuit for the black cylindrical key, drawing it out and with a shrug, pointing it at the metal pillar. Almost instantaneously a concealed door drew back, revealing the inside of what was obviously a lift. Napoleon ushered the two men inside, the three agents following them. They rode down in silence, Illya glancing at his watch before lapsing into his usual impassive expression.

The doors opened into a long room lined with shelves upon which were stacked boxes stamped with the Pedersen logo. At the end of the room, there was a sealed door with a large porthole like a single eye staring at them.

'That's the pressurised room. Beyond that is the submersible' Froiland said, glancing uneasily at Lorig. Illya looked at his watch again, and then gave them both a wolfish smile.

'I estimate then,' he said, his head to one side, that you have about ten minutes to get through the front door and into the kayaks which you'll find waiting for you.' The two men looked at each other, panic filtering into their eyes as quickly as the dawn was appearing in the sky. 'Oh, and if I were you, I'd paddle as quickly as you can to avoid any falling debris' he added. Jolanta withdrew a small knife from her wetsuit and cut off the tape round their hands as Illya tossed the black key towards them. Grabbing it, they sprinted back into the lift and the door closed.

'Shouldn't we have kept them with us?' Jolanta said, as they yanked open the door and walked inside.

'You haven't been with them all night. We won't get any more out of them, and if they head back from whence we came, they might find a little UNCLE reception party waiting.'

Illya sealed the door and began to repressurise the room.

'So, what did you find out while I was being bored to death by Dumb and Dumber' Napoleon asked, noticing that Jolanta seemed a little more friendly than before.

'The factory is on the face of it legitimate' Kuryakin began. They're producing standard vaccines mainly. However . . .' He began to strip off his wetsuit, grabbing the clothes he had packed from his backpack and pulling them on, before continuing, 'we did find another room in the lab area which if I'm not mistaken, is where the Mumps virus is produced.'

After Napoleon and Jolanta had changed, he swung open the door to the submersible, shutting and sealing it behind them. The craft was quite small, but there was enough room for at least several boxes to be stored in an area behind the main controls.

'They have a big helicopter landing area where they ship the stuff, apparently,' Napoleon said. 'This must be for the special guests.' Jolanta was already powering up the craft and releasing the clamps to the side of the building. As they turned and headed out towards the open fjord, Illya looked at his watch, pressing a tiny button on the top.

There was a deep roar from behind them followed immediately by what felt like a great wave of energy rocking them violently from side to side before Jolanta regained control of the craft. They moved quickly forward, Illya plotting the course towards the Marina at the end of the fjord. As the effects of the explosion diminished, they heard another sound, this time coming from above.

'Sounds like a helicopter' Illya said, looking up from the dials in front of him.

'I've got a feeling it's not air-sea rescue either' Napoleon replied. Instantly the sound of gunfire began, just audible inside the submersible.

'Dive' Illya urged Jolanta. 'You have to go deeper'. She glanced at him nervously before taking the craft gradually deeper into the fjord.

After a while the noise lessened. Jolanta brought the submersible up a little, the two men sitting behind her.

'Jolanta, we're just going to check these boxes; are you alright for a few minutes?' Illya said, getting up. Jolanta turned slightly, a look of annoyance on her face.

'Of course. I am trained for this' she said dismissively.

Illya signalled to Napoleon and they shuffled back, squeezing themselves behind the row of boxes.

'So, do you think that was the place?' Illya breathed out slowly, his face serious.

'That's what they intended us to think. It was certainly very convincing; perfect in fact. However, that room where the virus was, Napoleon, it just wasn't right somehow. With a virus that dangerous and that valuable, I think there would have been more precautions, more secrecy. No, I think we've been had. However, I would prefer it if, at least for now, our comrade in front thought differently.' Napoleon stared slightly, glancing towards the boxes.

'Jolanta? Do you think she's . . .'

'Working for THRUSH? Not at the moment. However, call me paranoid, but I think there's always an outside chance she's working for . . .'

'Miss Bolt'. Solo grimaced, and then started to rip one of the boxes open, pointing towards the front. 'Nothing very interesting here' he said rather loudly, before resuming his position facing his partner.

Illya brought up his arms behind him to stretch them, his fingers unwittingly touching a button underneath the locker above his head. There was an imperceptible click. He turned round and silently opened the locker door, searching inside and then pulling out a box containing three padded envelopes carefully packed between layers of wadding. After extracting the wadding, he placed the three envelopes on a box that Napoleon had dragged out between them.

The first one was slightly larger than the others, and contained two tiny bottles of a green coloured liquid. Both bottles were marked _Thanaton A, _a tiny skull printed by the side of the name. Illya stared at it for a while, and then carefully replaced it in its envelope. The second envelope contained a medium sized tube of what felt like some kind of gel, the name _Hypnoterin_ printed on the label. Illya decided not to open the cap, replacing the tube in its envelope and sliding it into the box next to the green liquid. He stared into space for a few moments, before withdrawing the last drug from its envelope.

It was another, larger IV phial, colourless this time, bearing the name _Somatex. _ Illya returned it to its envelope and then pulled out a small pad and a pencil from his shirt pocket, writing the three names on it.

'What are they, samples?' Napoleon murmured, frowning at the look on his partner's face. Illya picked up the wadding and carefully re-packed the box, placing it in his backpack, with extra wadding round it.

'I don't think they intended us to see these' the Russian said slowly. 'I think we were intended to return in the kayaks, with accompanying machine gun fire, for effect at least, just to show us they cared, whilst those two took this to the Marina' he said, pointing to the box.

'So what are they?' Napoleon persisted, feeling that his partner had at least a theory about the mysterious solutions. Illya spun the pad round to face him, pointing to each name with his pencil.

'I think the clue is in the names. Miss Bolt likes these sort of skewed word games; it suits her personality' he added caustically. The first one, 'Thanaton'; _Thanatos_ is the Greek word for death, Napoleon. I think this was the drug used to kill Miranda Jones.'

'Yeah. It looks as if it was prepared to be added to a liquid rather than injected' Napoleon said, 'and if I remember rightly, Miss Jones' mouth was filled with a rather unpleasant green froth when she died.' Illya nodded, and then moved his pen to the next name.

'Hypnoterin. Not a very imaginative name, but the Greek word _Hypnos_ means . .'

'Sleep.'

'And who cannot be woken from his sleep at the moment?' Napoleon stared at Illya before looking back fixedly at the list.

'And the last one?' An anguished look flushed across Illya's face as he looked at the word.

'That word _Soma_ is a Sanskrit word from the Vedic Scriptures, if I remember rightly' Illya continued quietly.

'_We have drunk soma and become immortal.'_

'Somatex' is the latest development of the drug Miss Bolt gave Tess on our honeymoon. I would guess that, unlike that drug, the victim cannot wake from the world that he or she has been placed, even though to all appearances they may seem normal. Except that I don't think Tess has been given this drug, Napoleon.'

'You mean that someone tried to give her this Somatex drug and what, she woke up before they could do it?'

'No. I think they thought they'd done it. I think that this is the drug Miss Jones discovered in Pharmacy and this is why she died.' Illya scratched his head, his hair wild as he gazed at his partner. 'When we return to New York, Napoleon, I would strongly urge you to search Miss Jones' belongings again. I have the feeling that she substituted something for that drug.'

'. . . .Which means that Tess is lying to us?'

'Well yes, Napoleon, she is lying to us, but more importantly, she is lying to them.' Illya crouched down on the floor, his head cradled between his hands. 'For the noblest of reasons, my wife has decided to do what you and I seem unable to carry out.' Napoleon crouched down and stared at his partner, understanding suddenly coming to him.

'Oh shit. I have the feeling that Miss Spence, the girl that delivered the virus to you, has also been given a dose, but this time of the real McCoy. She's impossible to break down, and when I questioned her, she could tell me nothing except bearing a grudge against you for not thinking her date material.'

Illya groaned slightly and stood up. Taking the envelope with the drugs, he removed them and secreted them carefully in an inside pocket of his shirt.

'When we get nearer, I think we should split up. I'll take the submersible and you take Jolanta. I'm going to make sure they don't get the opportunity to search it and discover anything missing.' Napoleon shoved the box he'd pulled out back in line and followed Illya back towards the front of the craft.

'You were gone a little while. Find anything interesting?' Jolanta turned, her eyes scanning the two agents, lingering on Napoleon before she turned back to the controls.

'Nothing out of the ordinary' Illya said shrugging his shoulders.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The door bell sounded, waking Therese up from the doze she had finally and gratefully slipped into. She opened her eyes and lay there listening as the door opened and the sound of female voices drifted up towards her. Moments later, pounding footsteps on the stairs heralded Anastasiya, who hurled herself into the room and began to jump up and down on the rug in front of the bed, before finally coming to rest standing, her chin resting on the mattress at Therese's side.

'Mama, it's that lady but not the scary man' she bawled breathlessly, her eyes enormous. Her bright red hair had been cut into a short bob while Therese had been lying down that afternoon, and the straight fringe and hair made her look startlingly like her father, the same rather winsome look he sometimes wore, this time framed by red rather than blond hair.

Therese hauled herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Pascale, another victim of what she imagined was her sister's attempts to smarten up the family, slipped into the room, the plaits reduced to a slightly longer version of Tasiya's style, this time in brown.

'You look very smart, girls' she offered, standing up a little unsteadily. She had returned home only that morning, this being the first day of freedom from what had seemed an eternity of bed rest, so she was taking it slowly.

'Frankie did it' Tasiya said proudly, holding her sister's hand. 'But mama, Valya screamed so he don't have nice hair.'

'Oh dear, this is becoming ridiculous' Therese said, smiling at the two girls. 'So, who did you say was here?'

'It's that lady, mama, the one we met at the shoe shop. She says she is a nurse at UNCLE' Pascale replied.

Until that moment, Therese hadn't made the connection. Nurse Yvonne Shumway had been involved with her care in Medical on an almost daily basis since 'the accident' as she referred to it, but for some reason, when she thought back to the events on the day outside the shoe shop, her thoughts were only focused on one person. She struggled into her shoes and followed the girls down the stairs.

Yvonne Shumway was sitting on the green sofa in the front room talking to Josefina Solo, the distant sound of crashing china signalling the imminent arrival of tea.

'Hello Therese' she said rather warmly, standing up, 'I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I should check to see if there was anything I could do for you.' In the back of Therese's mind a memory stirred of Yvonne Shumway telling her she lived uptown, but there was no reason why she shouldn't visit this area of town, she supposed.

'That's very kind of you Yvonne' Therese replied, sitting down on a low orange chair facing them. 'Um, Frankie and Jo are helping me at weekends and of course we have Anya to help us during the week now.' She noticed Yvonne's face fall slightly, as if she had been seriously disappointed by Therese's reply. 'Er, but if you wanted to call, you don't need to do anything , just come over' she added, seeing the other woman's face instantly clear, as if she'd just been given marvellous news.

'Oh I will, thanks' she said, as Frankie came into the room, followed by a line of Kuryakin children together with Fabian Solo, Pascale carrying a rather wonderful looking chocolate cake on a large blue plate.

Tasiya gave Yvonne one of her customary stares before dragging Fabian in front of the cake, the two children staring at it intently.

'Want some cake, Tas?' Therese said, raising her eyebrows at Yvonne. 'She follows in a long line of voracious eaters ' she added, Frankie beginning to cut the cake as the twins thundered over, arms outstretched, towards their mother. Therese lifted up Misha onto her lap, Valya climbing up the other side, beginning to clamber all over her.

'Get off Valya, you are a disgrace' Jo said, getting up and hauling the little boy off. Therese could see that once again he had evaded the barber's scissors, his hair now hanging thickly almost to his shoulders, in marked contrast to his brother's short hair and neat fringe.

Therese shook her head at the little boy now forcing his way into the line receiving cake.

'Well his father can deal with him when he returns, seeing that nobody else seems to be able to' Therese said.

'That should be interesting' Jo replied, before silencing Valya with a piece of chocolate cake. 'The shaggy leading the long-haired.'

'Perhaps I could call on Monday evening then?' Yvonne interrupted suddenly.

'Mama, Tasiya and I are going to the swimming pool with Anya on Monday afternoon.' Therese nodded, remembering how insistent Anya had been about it. Now it seemed this woman was also insisting on visiting. She sighed, wishing that Illya could be there, at least for a few days, without any explosions, accidents or visits by well-meaning strangers interrupting their time together.

'Yes, I mean that would be fine, Yvonne. About six?'.

Later, when Yvonne had left and the children were banished to the garden with Frankie, Therese and Jo lay together on the sofa, their arms intertwined.

'Tessy, is that woman a friend of yours?' Therese looked up, noticing her sister's worried expression.

'I wouldn't say that. I mean I saw a lot of her in Medical, but no, she's not a friend.' Jo laid back, her eyes closed.

'This is driving me mad. I'm sure I know her from somewhere, only I just can't think where' she murmured, almost to herself. She shook her head, and looked at her sister.

'Perhaps you met her somewhere other than in New York' Therese offered.

'Perhaps.' They lay in companionable silence for a while, the children's laughter drifting in through the open French doors.

'Jo, when we on that island, you know with Lee . .'

'I know' Jo said abruptly.

'Illya told me you shot one of the guards; the one that was holding Anastasiya.'

Jo opened her eyes, contemplating her sister. She had filled out in the weeks she'd been incarcerated in UNCLE Medical, the dark rings round her eyes lessened, and her complexion beginning to take on more warm tones. The harried, worn down look she had detected at the school concert had surprisingly disappeared too, replaced by the usual calm, strong countenance Therese Kuryakin showed to the world. But underneath these outward appearances, Jo detected a focus on something that made her feel uneasy.

'That was years ago. Why are you asking me now?' Therese breathed in deeply,

a serious expression covering her face despite the antics of the children outside.

'I wanted to know how it felt to kill somebody. I mean, you're not an agent, you're just like, well just like me aren't you?'

Jo sat up, her hands holding Therese by the shoulders as she looked into the calm golden brown eyes gazing at her.

'No I'm not like you Tessy. For a start off, I can use a gun and you can't. If you want to know, I felt glad to do it, and I'd do it again, as many times as it took to protect my family from those . . _no marks_.' The old scouse expression brought a smile to Therese's face, but Jo continued stony faced. 'I don't think you could kill anybody Tessy, because you'd torment yourself for the rest of your life about it, however evil they were.'

Therese turned away slightly from her sister's gaze, her attention drawn to a photograph of Illya with the twins as babies.

'I helped Illya kill somebody once. I don't regret it.'

'You may not, but you think about it, you pray about it, I know you, Tess. Let your husband do the killing. It's his responsibility not yours.' Therese twisted away from her sister slightly, forcing her to release her grasp.

'It may be. But not this time' she murmured to herself.

xxxxxxxx

Napoleon dragged the diving gear into the space behind the controls and tapped Jolanta on the shoulder.

'Come on, leave Illya to park the car. We don't want to give them three possible captives if there's a reception party at the Marina.'

'I very much doubt that, _Napoleon_' Jolanta replied rather acidly, emphasising his name in a rather mocking way. 'After all, they want you to report back to New York, do they not?'

'True, but that doesn't take three of us to do that. So, if you don't mind, we'll err on the side of caution and let Illya take the flack at the Marina if there's any to be taken.' Jolanta gazed across at Illya, now calmly sitting next to her at the controls, and ran her hand through his hair.

'Don't let them hurt you, Little.' she whispered into his ear, smoothing the hair round it. 'You need a haircut, it is all awry' she added. 'Or does your woman like it that way, all jagged, like a mountain?'

Illya frowned, and removed her hand from his head, before turning to Napoleon.

'I'll meet you two at Stavanger Railway Station, er, let's say six o'clock tonight. There should be a train out of there tonight, and then with any luck, we can be in New York by Monday evening.'

'You boys seem in a hurry' Jolanta said, getting up slowly and beginning to drag on a wetsuit from the pile deposited on the floor. 'Are your wives fed up with waiting?'

'Probably' Illya replied, 'but they're good at hiding it; that's why we married them.' Napoleon smiled to himself as he swung his oxygen tanks onto his back.

'OK, see you at six.'

'I won't be coming any further than Stavanger' Jolanta interrupted. 'I need to rejoin the others. Remember, I'm not in Section Two now, just in Training.'

'So where are you based?' Napoleon said, noticing Illya's frown deepening.

'Do you really care?' Jolanta replied, smiling, although it seemed less friendly than a smile should, he thought. 'We live in Corsica. It's a very pleasant place . . for training' she added, almost as an afterthought.

She bent down immediately, swinging her tanks onto her back and fixing the regulator round her neck.

'Take care, Little' she said, and disappeared off towards the hatch at the back of the craft. Napoleon nodded in the direction of another set of diving gear, which he'd stowed out of Jolanta's sight.

'Strange. Did you notice she said '_we live'_ in Corsica? I wonder if she has someone secreted away there?' Illya's lips were tightly drawn, indicating something on his mind.

'We'll discuss it later. Remind me' he said. He turned round, and started fiddling with the controls, signalling an end to the conversation.

Napoleon followed Jolanta's trail of oxygen bubbles, trying to concentrate on swimming rather than how cold it was. He estimated it was only going to be a short swim, perhaps a kilometre at the most, then hopefully, with a little help from her friends, they would be picked up and ferried to Stavanger. They had arranged for someone to leave their car in the car park at the Marina, so that Kuryakin would, if he needed it, have the benefit of clothes and the car to make his getaway. As he swam, he focused on the conversation in the submersible. Jolanta's words and Kuryakin's hesitancy to talk led him to believe that there was something, or someone she was not prepared to talk about.

He wondered whether Illya's caution was justified; it was hard to accept that she could be yet another pawn in Lee-Hua Bolt's evil game, and if she was, was it as a willing recruit or a victim forced into service? He was willing to go along with his partner's judgement now, trusting that the Russian had got it right again as he had so many times in the past.

Napoleon glanced at his watch, knowing that above, it would be well into daylight on the fjord. Jolanta made a sign with her hand and started to spiral upwards towards the light, Napoleon following gratefully. They broke the water at the rocky edge of a long grassed plain, a traditional farmhouse painted red, standing in the distance amongst a few saplings growing in front of the cliffs looming to its rear. She swam up by the rocks for a few metres, before hauling herself onto the grass and yanking Napoleon after her unceremoniously, until he lay on the grass slightly panting with the effort and the sharp, raw cold of the morning.

'We can wait there' she said, pointing towards the farmhouse. 'We use it from time to time, and there are some clothes and food stored for these occasions' she added, smiling rather tightly, before trudging off dangling her flippers by her side. Napoleon leaned down and wrenched his flippers off, rather liking the coarse feel of the grass beneath his bare feet. He pulled back his headgear just in time to witness a rather spectacular explosion further up the fjord.

As the roar of the explosives echoed across the water, the fjord seemed to open up, disgorging a huge mass of material which had been ripped into shreds and propelled upwards by the force of the blast. There was a corresponding splash as the parts of the submersible, now smashed beyond repair, landed on the water and spread out in a vortex of splintered metal and wood.

'Did you know about this?' Jolanta shouted in his ear as he stood there admiring his partner's handiwork.

'Um, no' he lied easily, 'but you know what he's like when there are explosives lying around. He can be quite spontaneous.'

'Are we talking about the same person?' Jolanta replied, almost mockingly. 'Illya Kuryakin - spontaneous?' She sniffed slightly and continued to watch the debris floating towards the Marina.

'He's not like he was when you were with him' Napoleon said rather more seriously. 'Five years is a long time.'

'Yes, Napoleon, it is' she said, turning away sharply and walking back towards the farmhouse.

Checking his watch for one last time, Illya swam up through the hatch and locked it, before kicking away towards the Marina. He estimated he could cover at least a few hundred metres in the time, maybe more. He forced himself to up his pace, furiously kicking away with the flippers and propelling his body through the water without wasting too much energy in the effort. The explosion, when it came, sent a shock wave driving him forward, until with relief, he spotted the underwater foundations of the quay at the Marina.

He waited for a few minutes, judging that there would be an audience above for the blast, before moving slowly along under the water until he got to the very edge of the quay. He came up silently, hiding just underneath the edge of the quay, facing the road, away from the crowds that had run down and round the edge of the large white clapboarded Marina building, staring out at the mangled remains of the submersible in shocked silence.

Hauling himself onto the concrete edge of the path just behind a solitary petrol dispenser, he relieved himself of his diving impedimenta, and gathering it all up, ran barefoot across the concrete towards a group of cars parked at the far end of a large car park facing the Marina. Illya felt underneath the passenger compartment at the front, retrieving a set of keys which were stuck obligingly to the underside of the dashboard. Opening the boot of the car, he threw the diving gear in and dragged out a black bag. He glanced round the car park before getting in the back of the car. There seemed no obviously interested onlookers to his activities, most still occupied with discussing the explosion in the fjord.

Yanking off his wetsuit and underwear, he stuffed them behind one of the front seats and pulled out a set of clothes from the bag, which surprisingly fitted him rather well; a soft red and black checked shirt and some black trousers and boots reminded him of something similar Tess had given him one Christmas.

Tess. Something inside him was urging him on, urging him to get home. He felt inside the wetsuit, gently pulling out three plastic bags, the three drugs intact through their watery journey. He stared at them, reminded of his conversation with Napoleon. _She is lying to them_. A thought which made him feel sick inside crept upon him. He remembered his comments to Napoleon as the mumps virus took hold of him, remembering his realisation then and now that whatever Lee-Hua Bolt hoped to achieve in order to regain her status within THRUSH, it was as nothing to her personal obsession with Therese. He knew it, and now, he was certain, she knew it too. He shoved the three drugs inside his shirt and scrambled into the front seat, starting the Volvo with a roar and skidding out of the car part towards Stavanger.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

'Bless me father, for I have sinned'

Gabriel McCaffery frowned slightly before leaning forward to listen to the man on the other side of the grille. He remembered him now; he wasn't a parishioner, rather a relative of two of the many women who made up the significant Irish community at St Clare's. The words came easily at first, the usual small details of life that this man and countless others had reiterated since they had knelt before the priest as children. He hesitated, a slight indrawing of breath indicating that the confession had paused, rather than ended.

'I have failed to return a letter which I accidently kept back from one of the occupants of the apartment block I work in, despite having had several opportunities of doing so, Father.'

It was Gabriel's turn to hesitate, as the man completed the simple prayer asking for penance and absolution.

'May I ask you why you kept the letter?' he said, peering through the grille. He remembered his name now; the man's sisters in law had taken a particular interest in his own sister and her ever-growing family.

'I know it was wrong, Father, but, you know I felt and I still feel there's something not quite right going on there with that fella.'

He was waiting for Gabriel when he emerged from the confessional, his head bowed; still soundlessly mouthing the penance he'd been given as Gabriel approached.

'Father, have you got a few minutes. It's . . . it's about the letter.' Gabriel sat down in front of him, as Walter Kennedy carefully removed the envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. 'I know what you said, Father, and I respect your advice, but I wanted you to read it, and then I'll return it to Mr Hoang and apologise.'

Something about the name, hearing it and seeing it written on the letter, jerked Gabriel's memory painfully. He remembered now. He had been at the back of the hall during the school concert, enjoying the delight of families in their children as much as the performances themselves. His attention had been drawn to a man who had slipped in towards the end of the concert, something about him causing Gabriel a sense of unease as their eyes had met momentarily. Now the Chinese sounding name on the envelope and the features of the man he had stared at coalesced in his mind. He couldn't understand it, but he knew that he had seen those eyes before, a long time ago and in a very different place.

Taking the envelope he slowly drew out an expensive looking sheet of paper from inside and started to read. The postmark indicated it was from Italy, though there was no address on the paper, only the name and logo of the organisation, at the top of the page.

Dear Mr Hoang,

We would like to invite you to attend and speak at the next meeting of the Misteltoe Foundation, the date, time and place to be notified to you on receipt of your acceptance of this invitation. Laboratory facilities will be available but we would be grateful if any specimens or photographic evidence of your research could be conveyed to us by courier at your convenience.

Yours sincerely

Edvard Zoltan

Edvard Zoltan

Chief Executive

Misteltoe Foundation

Pharmacology Division

'I know it don't sound too bad when you read it Father, but there's something _real_ bad about that fella, and there's a real nice gal mixed up with the guy too. It's funny that' he said, almost to himself as Gabriel re-read the words of the letter, 'I'm sure I saw her at Mass last Sunday.' Gabriel looked up.

'What, here?' he asked, returning it to the envelope.

'Yeah. She seemed real pally with that gal with all that long curly hair; you know, the one in the family way, with all the kids but don't look old enough?' Gabriel stared at him, and then glanced quickly at his watch.

'You mean my sister, Therese?' Kennedy nodded, smiling.

'Yeah, I guess. I mean I can see the likeness now Father. Yeah, they seemed as if they knew each other.'

Gabriel's hand closed on the envelope.

'Mr Kennedy, would you mind if I kept this letter? I know of an organisation who might be very interested in it.' Kennedy nodded, looking as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

'Sure, Father, and I'll keep schtum about it until you tell me different, right?'

'Er, right, absolutely' Gabriel answered, getting up and shaking the older man's hand.

xxxxxxxxx

Alan Page glanced at himself in the mirror, before handing his employer a note he had typed on the Remington he kept ready on his desk for these purposes.

'These are the details of the conference. They are concerned about the missing letter, but not unduly so' he began in a rather nasal Boston accent he had worked hard to cultivate. 'Do you want me to run through your travel arrangements now?'

Hoang read the note and then taking out his wallet, inserted the paper into the billfold section.

'Later. I need everything to be ready for removal tomorrow morning at the latest. Is the other matter I asked you to take care of, in hand?' Page nodded, opening the top drawer of his desk and removing a dark leather folder.

'These are the details of the party involved and arrangements for the, um, accident.' He closed the file and handed it to Hoang. 'I . . um, is this really necessary?' Hoang stared at him, Page feeling as if the other man's eyes were peeling open his brain and looking inside it.

'What, you feel sorry for them, Page?' He sniffed, a lascivious smile accentuating what Page always considered as a kind of reptilian expression about his face.

'No. It's just that they're little kids, that's all.'

Hoang walked to the window and looked out. The street was heavily shadowed by the late afternoon sun, but he could see clearly that despite the time of day, the humidity of the summer afternoon told on the faces of people struggling along the pavement below.

'Little kids, as you call them Clark, grow up to be men, and those little kids will grow up to be men who might one day cause me problems. Besides, with respect Alan, men are so, how can I put it . . . 'single minded', don't you think? Women, from my experience, see the broader picture. The girls, in time, will see things our way, but the boys . . . .' He turned away and sat down on the sofa, scanning through the file; 'the boys will have to go. Remember, Page, you are an employee of THRUSH and as such I expect you to carry out these tasks without either questioning my judgement or lapsing into the distasteful sentimentality you have just shown. '

There was a ring at the door, the noise shaking Page from the frozen position he had assumed in the last few seconds.

'That will be Yvonne' Hoang droned, not looking up. 'Show her in; we have such a great deal to discuss.'

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'Would you like afternoon tea?' The stewardess was a clone of so many hundred others Napoleon had smiled at over the years; good looking, eager to please, but not a lot going on beyond that. There had been a few who were promising; Kuryakin had a particular affection for the girl called Barbara, and unbelievably still received and sent letters and cards to her after all these years, the size of their respective families a sign of time passing. He glanced across at his partner, apparently sleeping like a baby in the seat next to him.

'Tea, three sugars, scone and strawberry jam.'

'You're awake then.'

'I am now.' Illya sat up and smiled sweetly at the stewardess before pulling down the tray in front of him.

He was mid-way through his second scone when Napoleon remembered.

'So, tell me about Jolanta.'

'What about her?' Napoleon sighed and put down his tea.

'Don't be obtuse. If you remember, you said to remind you to tell me.' Illya continued eating slowly, his eyes flickering sideways before returning to stare at the seat in front.

'Did I?' He finished eating and sat back, finishing the tea and then slotting it back carefully in its little indentation on the tray.

'Illya.'

'Alright, but I'm not entirely certain what she meant myself.' Napoleon frowned, looking into the eyes of his partner, whose innocent expression he was certain hid something he understood all too well.

'Tell me, then I'll be the judge of that, seeing that it's obviously something to do with Miss Kiss and myself' he said a little tetchily.

Illya turned away, returning his gaze to the little tray in front of him. He had known that this moment would come, and he wanted to tell his friend what she had said, even give his opinion, but suddenly he felt uncertain about what it was all about. Perhaps his own experience was making him misconstrue Jolanta's words, leading his partner to a place which he himself had found so difficult to journey to. He looked down, his lips tightening to a thin line across his face.

'She asked me about your current situation' he began, watching Napoleon carefully. I told her you were married with a son, and then she asked me whether you were happy.

'And you said . . .'

'Well obviously, I said that you were. You are happy aren't you?' Napoleon smiled. Illya could be so innocent looking sometimes.

'Then she started asking me about Pascale and Pablo, whether we loved them as much as the other children.'

'Let me guess. You told her that you loved them more because they were chosen. Not strictly true of course because Pascale was a slip up of your own making, but . . am I right?' Illya frowned.

'You are right, but Pascale was not a 'slip-up', Napoleon.' He looked away out of the window, Napoleon mentally kicking himself at the same time desperately trying to make sense of what his partner had told him.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, Jolanta's words replaying in his mind over and over again as he struggled to accept in his head what his heart was telling him.

'But we both may have got it wrong' Illya said at last.

'Perhaps, but for now, we have to focus on your progeny, not mine. Have you got the drugs?' Illya nodded, patting his jacket before moving a little as the stewardess collected the trays.

'Napoleon, when we get back, I must get home immediately. I need to speak to Anya and see if I can persuade her to tell me what is going on.'

'I don't think Waverly would wear that. Besides, they've put Davis, Stellito, Goss and Davitz onto protection duty until you return, so your former fiancée won't wander across town any more with your girls in tow without us knowing.' Illya grimaced at the names.

'Two of those are just out of survival school, Napoleon. Isn't there anyone else?'

'Nope. Apparently word is that there's a lot of twittering going on amongst our avian friends about some sort of high level conference in Europe. Some of the guys have been diverted East to investigate.'

Illya sat back resignedly in his seat. The mission to Norway had felt all wrong, even though he felt the drugs would provide something to help them unravel at least some of the mystery surrounding what was going on in New York. It felt as if no matter what they did, there were too many leads to investigate, too many blind alleys that lead them nowhere while the object of their search pulled them about from one place to another, like a pair of marionettes on strings. One of his children was already a victim of Bolt and he couldn't help but think that one by one, the rest of his family and friends were being sucked in, while he frantically chased about, unable to connect the people and events that passed before him like scenes in a nightmare he desperately wanted to wake from.

Napoleon's communicator broke the silence between them. Illya leaned over slightly as Napoleon opened the channel and spoke.

'Solo'

'Ah, Mr Solo, we may have just the piece of information you and Mr Kuryakin are looking for, from rather an unusual source it seems.' Illya's eyebrows disappeared into his hair; it appeared that Waverly had read his mind from a considerable distance away.

Waverly began to explain, quoting the letter from Kennedy.

'We've sent some Section Three men up to monitor movements at the apartment block. Unfortunately, it's almost certain that our major target has flown the nest. However, if you hurry, gentlemen, you could intercept who we think is the man you observed at Clinton Castle, Mr Solo.' He cleared his throat a little before saying, 'you remember, Mr Kuryakin, the one with the unfortunate haircut.'

Illya reddened slightly, ignoring the silly grin on Napoleon's face. He lent over towards the communicator.

'Do we know who he is, sir?'

'His name is Alan Page, Mr Kuryakin. We'll let you know more when our research people come up with anything more detailed, but it appears he is a rather new recruit to the ranks of our friends at THRUSH. Our informant, Mr, er, Kennedy, says that there has been a lot of activity in the apartment this weekend, and our men on the ground have observed definite signs of removal taking place. Get hold of this man, gentlemen, and we could have the answer to what connects all the disparate elements of this affair together.'

There was a momentary pause, before Waverly continued.

'Mr Kuryakin, your brother in law seemed to think that the woman involved with Mr Hoang knows your wife and attends Mass at your church. Can you think who that person is?' Before Illya could reply, Napoleon interrupted.

'I think I know, sir. She was one of those women Josefina invited to that get-together at the hotel. I've just realised that I saw her leaving that day in the arms of a man who fits the description of our major target' he continued, aware of his partner's strained expression and tense body next to him.

'Yvonne Shumway' Illya murmured, sinking back into the seat slightly. 'She's a nurse in medical.'

'What did you say?' Waverly replied tersely.

'She works for us' Napoleon said, 'and she's been looking after both Mrs Kuryakin and Pablo since the accident.' There was a moment's pause before Waverly said, 'we'll contact our men at your home, Mr Kuryakin, and make sure they apprehend her if she makes contact with anyone there. Meanwhile, please make it a priority to get hold of this Page fellow before you do anything else. We must know what Hoang is up to and what sort of hold he's got on Miss Shumway.'

Illya leaned forward again and grasped the communicator.

'Er, what about Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina, sir? Should I not try to find out what her role is in all this?'

'I understand your fears for your family Mr Kuryakin' Waverly responded immediately, 'but you will have to trust the agents we have allotted to protect them for the time being. It is essential that we get hold of this man and that we do not intervene too quickly before the opportunity to follow the beast to his lair is lost.'

Illya frowned, before saying 'I understand sir' and handing the communicator back to Napoleon.

After the communiqué was ended, they both sat silently for a while. Napoleon turned towards his partner eventually, but the Russian's eyes were closed and his head turned away towards the gradually lightening dawn of the new day.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

'Anything?'

'Absolutely nothing, _nada_. What d'you expect at six o'clock in the morning in a street like this? Grand Theft Auto?' John Davis leaned back from the powerful binoculars in front of him and stretched his hands high above his head. This was his partner's first Section Two job but Davis knew from Stellito's loud and frequent sighs that he thought it should be allotted to Section Three rather than expecting agents like them to be wasting their time on it.

'Well, they did say at Survival School it wasn't going to be all 'wham, bam, thank you mam', Stellito replied. They'd been partnered two weeks and were getting along pretty well, although Davis thought there were some worrying aspects to his partner's behaviour, notably his belief that somehow he was 'as good as Solo with women'. As if that mattered, he thought, leaning forward and looking through the binoculars again at the quiet house opposite.

Stellito pulled back the sheer curtains across the window and glanced out, to Davis' obvious annoyance. What he assumed were two cleaners at the school next to them came out of the building, glancing upwards as they meandered down the street towards the church facing them across the pedestrian crossing at the junction with Hudson.

'I think she's up' he said, looking back at Davis with the kind of smirk that Davis thought disrespectful. He walked away from the window and went into the kitchen just off the room they were in, before returning with two cups of coffee and some stale looking bagels that Goss had left from the day before.

'I reckon if you scoped the window you could get a real good view of her, and is she worth the view' Stellito continued, handing Davis the coffee.

Davis frowned, waving away the bagels and taking the coffee.

'Don't talk about her like that. She's married to one of the best men we have and we need to focus on the job rather than acting like goddam peeping Toms' he replied caustically. Stellito leaned on the wall against the window, staring at his partner as he sipped his coffee. Whatever he said, she was a real looker, and at least that made this stupid ass job bearable. He'd only met Kuryakin once since he returned from Survival School and what he saw he wasn't too impressed by, whatever all the guys said. To his mind Solo looked like a real agent, smooth as silk; not some geeky four-eyed professor type seriously in need of a haircut and a decent tailor.

He glanced at his watch just as Davis signalled him with his hand.

' 0631: Target 3 entering house.' Stellito glanced through the curtain again as Davis droned the information into a tiny recorder in his hand. He recognised the woman as the Kuryakin's au-pair, and although they hadn't been given any names beyond the family, he guessed she was a Russian like Kuryakin.

'Nice little ménage a trois' he said, ignoring Davis' withering look in his direction. 'Tell me John, why won't they give us the names, for God's sake?

'Need to know' Davis replied, 'and you don't need to know, Ricki, so just take over here for a mo while I drink my coffee.'

She was carrying a large cardboard box with carrying handles. Whatever was inside was almost certainly alive, the box swaying about alarmingly as she waited for the door to open.

'Child 1 and 2 have answered door' Stellito continued mechanically, smiling at the sight of Anastasiya Kuryakin's expression as she kissed the au-pair joyfully and then, after jumping up and down a few times, looked down longingly at the still moving box.

'What was that?' Stellito said, looking across at Davis who was managing to look out of the window rather less obviously than his partner.

'Well, looking at the way it moved, I would hazard a guess it was an animal of some sort' Davis replied, sarcastically.

'Rusalka is here! _ Rusalka est ici!' _Русалка находится здесь!' Therese stood in the hall with her hands to her ears as Tasiya shouted her message in as many languages as she could muster, before she started dragging Anya towards the kitchen.

'_Tasiya, tranquille, s'il te plâit! Pauvre chaton!_' Tess said calmly, taking the little girl's hand and walking downstairs with her, Pascale bringing up the rear with a barely concealed look of horror at her sister's antics. A series of tiny mewing sounds interposed themselves between Tasiya's shouts, until she was eventually calmed into silence by Tess' firm hand on the cat box.

'Be quiet, because Rusalka will be frightened if you keep on shouting like that.'

The twins, luckily imprisoned in two little seats attached to the kitchen table, also stared at the box with rapt attention, Valya flicking his hair unconsciously from his face in a very Illya way before returning his serious gaze towards the mewing box.

'I hope you didn't mind, Theresa' Anya began, but they were all so upset by. . the demise of big Rusalka.' They had decided to differentiate by referring to the first cat in this way, after Tasiya had begged to keep the same name for the kitten Anya had promised her.

'No, I don't mind at all; whether 'big Valya' will object is a matter of conjecture' Tess replied, smiling. Anya grinned, before gently opening the box.

The kitten was a very small version of her predecessor, but by the size of her paws, would soon rival her in size. But unlike her, this Rusalka was rather more aristocratic, her exquisite silver grey marking and deep blue-green eyes reminding Tess of cold snowy English winters and warm Mediterranean seas. As she reached in and scooped her out of the box, she noticed she was wearing a rather splendid soft leather collar, with a little silver cylinder attached.

'Her name is engraved on here' Anya said, showing Tasiya the side of the cylinder, 'and then you can put your address inside, so she can't get lost'.

'Or you can leave a secret message for papa!' Anastasiya replied, trying not to press too hard when she stroked the kitten, as Pascale had showed her.

Tess held the kitten firmly and after Tasiya had satiated herself with stroking, she carried her round the table for the boys to join in.

'She is lovely, Anya, thank you' she said warmly, tickling Rusalka under the chin, before gently putting her down on the floor next to a small bowl of meat.

'Boys, don't be rough with Rusalka!' Tasiya thundered, the kitten jumping a little as the twins began to struggle from their seats.

'Theresa, I wondered if I could take the girls swimming this morning rather than this afternoon, if it would be convenient?' Anya interrupted, helping Misha from his seat. Tess shrugged.

'That'll be fine. Jo will be here to collect the boys in a minute, so I can take it easy until Yvonne comes.' She noticed Anya's eyes tighten a little as she mentioned the American nurse. 'Besides', she added quietly, above the hubbub centring round the kitten, 'I have the feeling Illya may be back very soon.'

Anya put Misha down on the floor and watched Pascale rescuing the kitten from the grasp of three very excited little Kuryakins. Looking at the cat reminded her of the hateful minutes she had spent in this room with Arshavin, and of his cruel and unsubtle demonstration of the consequences of not obeying orders.

Since she had come to this country, Anya had felt increasingly disconnected, not only from her homeland, but also from her chain of command within the Russian Intelligence Service itself. Since Illya had left Gorky, she had been led to believe that any debt he had owed to his country had been paid, and that however reluctantly it had relinquished him, he now lived separately from it in peace. Indeed, she had detected a certain pride amongst those serving in the higher echelons of the GRU in their compatriot, and his standing within UNCLE.

The intelligence which she had brought to New York had come to the GRU from her husband, the source not revealed. He had gained a promotion through it, and had encouraged his superiors to involve his wife as the courier, a natural enough choice since she was coming to New York with him anyway, and because of her link with Illya Kuryakin. Since then, however, despite her higher rank, he had prevented all contact with her superiors in Moscow, and, as she saw it now, she had unquestioningly and stupidly accepted the orders that came through him, just as stupidly as she had agreed to marry him in the first place. Suddenly, her current orders and the threat to Kuryakin's life seemed wrong, at odds with the genuine respect and working relationship that had been established between Waverly and Moscow.

'Anya? Shall I bring something to eat for us? Tasiya gets hungry after swimming.' She started, suddenly aware of Pascale standing in front of her.

'Er, why of course, Polina. I will go upstairs and pack the costumes and then we can leave your mama in peace, _n'est-ce pas_?'

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The car drove slowly along 5th Avenue, the park sparkling, but deserted looking in the early morning sunshine. Napoleon tapped the driver on the shoulder and he pulled over suddenly on the corner with E62nd, leaving them standing looking down the shaded road as the car sped off down towards Park Avenue.

'Nice neighbourhood' Napoleon commented as the Russian stared down the street.

'If you say so' Illya replied. He had been quiet since their conversation on the plane and virtually monosyllabic ever since they landed. 'You go in the polite way and I'll join you later' he said, before walking off briskly and crossing the road, melting into the few pedestrians that were hurrying towards early morning appointments along the street.

Napoleon shrugged and continued to saunter along in the sunshine. He could tell already that the day would be excessively hot and humid, a stark contrast to the crisp climate they had left in Norway. Kuryakin had disappeared by the time he neared the apartment block, a lovely example of art deco architecture nestled between more modern neighbours on the street. He looked up, noting that the penthouse suite was no more than five or six stories up, with an interesting cornice running above it resembling the crenulations of a castle, concealing the rooftop behind.

The main door, reached by a flight of steps downwards, was protected by a long red canopy above it extending to the street, no doubt to protect the occupants from the elements. Napoleon crossed the road and ran lightly down the steps before pushing open the heavy glass doors and entering the foyer. A man in his early sixties with sparse grey hair combed across his head and a rather flushed face looked up as he approached the desk.

'I'm looking to leave a message for Mr Hoang. The name's Solo.' The man brightened visibly, smiling and nodding at Napoleon as if they were long-term confidants.

'Mr Solo, of course' he began in hushed tones. 'Mr Hoang has left, but you'll find Mr Page ready to answer your questions, I guess. Sixth floor, it's the only apartment up there.' Napoleon smiled back, glancing at the lifts behind him.

'Er, I wonder if you wouldn't mind doing one more thing, seeing that you've been so helpful in all this' he said. 'Could you ring up to Mr Page and tell him that you're sending someone up with a packet that's just been delivered, marked 'urgent'? That might make it easier to make contact, if you see what I mean.'

Walter Kennedy's eyes lit up and he nodded enthusiastically.

'Sure thing Mr Solo. Here, there's an empty packet, just to make it look realistic, like, see.' He thrust the packet into Napoleon's hands, before running over to the lift and pressing the call button. Napoleon saluted him with an equally knowing look before the lift doors closed and he began the rather slow ascent to the top of the building. He wondered how Illya was getting on; assuming that his ascent on the outside of the building had been rather quicker than Napoleon's seemed to be. He could tell that his partner was tense, wanting to be done with Page, but anxious to have the information he could deliver about Bolt. From the intelligence they had gained, it looked likely that Bolt, or Hoang as she now was, was heading towards Europe and a meeting with THRUSH Central first, so hopefully, if she could be intercepted there, perhaps the threat to Kuryakin's family would be averted. Whatever might happen, Napoleon was now pretty certain that the mission in Norway had been merely a diversionary exercise.

He padded across the expensive looking pile carpet towards the wide panelled door opposite. He could hear the doorbell resonate in the apartment, suggesting a lack of furniture within. After a few moments, he sensed someone near.

'Yes?'

'Mr Page? Delivery from downstairs.' He waved the packet in front of the screen by the door, masking his face and praying that Page had not taken too good a look at him when they had collided in the park. After a few moments silence, he was rewarded in that assumption by the door beginning to open.

It was obvious from the state of the room behind him and Page's appearance, that he was about to vacate the apartment. He was dressed informally, but still with taste, a rather expensive looking cardigan topping a polo shirt and a pair of slacks Napoleon wouldn't have minded owning. The hairstyle Kuryakin so despised remained immaculate, Page now staring at him through thick black rimmed glasses which Napoleon was sure were in the same price bracket as the rest of his clothes.

He continued to stare as Napoleon held the packet behind him, Page's expression changing to a frown as recognition began to dawn.

'You're not . . .' A crash and the sound of glass shattering onto the floor diverted him enough to allow Napoleon to force the door open and push him into the apartment before slamming it behind. As Page ran into the sitting room, Illya appeared brushing glass from his shoulders, his gun already aimed in the general direction of Page's head.

'Oh, sorry about the window, they were all rather inconsiderately shut' he said, motioning Page towards a single chair which had been positioned by the window for the purpose of removing curtains. Illya stopped and, removing a thin golden cord which was holding back a curtain, advanced towards Page and pushed him onto the chair before holstering his gun and binding Page's hands behind him to the chair in ruthless fashion.

'Good timing' Napoleon murmured as Illya retrieved his gun and stood behind Page silently, the barrel just resting on the newly shaven hairs at the base of his skull.

'You have no right . . .' Page began in a high-pitched, hysterical voice, before the tapping of Illya's gun on his neck reduced him to a shuddering silence.

'Oh I think you'll find we have every right' Napoleon began, wandering into the adjoining room and returning with a similar chair which he placed opposite the now quivering secretary. Napoleon glanced at his watch, and then looked slowly round the room.

'Going somewhere, Mr Page?'

Page swallowed frantically, before staring back at Napoleon, his eyes magnified and bulging behind the expensive glasses.

'I have nothing to say to UNCLE and don't think you can make me' he squeaked, jerking his head forward in a vain attempt to escape Illya's gun. Napoleon smiled at his partner, then got up and wandered towards the window.

'Oh well, in that case, you won't mind if we let Mr Hoang know that it was you who held onto that letter and then informed us where he's just moseyed on off to, then, will you?'

Page jerked his head round in time to see Illya give him a particularly nasty stare, before slowly facing Napoleon again.

'You . . I didn't do that . . .I . . .'

'Oh we know you didn't, but somehow I don't think Mr Hoang will be interested in your denials, do you? He never has before, has he, Illya?' Illya scraped the barrel of his gun round Page's neck, before saying,

'I can't remember him doing so.' Page attempted to move himself back from Illya, who was now crouched in front of him, inches from his face.

'Get him off me and I'll talk' he muttered almost inaudibly.' Napoleon wandered back to his seat, drawing it closer.

'Sorry, what was that you said?' he said slowly, his expression suddenly hardening.

'Get him off me!'

Illya slowly stood up, holstered his gun, and then began to crack the joints of his hands slowly.

'My partner here is getting a little impatient' Napoleon murmured. So how about you fill us in about a certain Sergei Gregorovitch Arshavin, and then once you've told us all about him, we'd like you to share what you know about Miss Yvonne Shumway and how she slots in to Mr Hoang's little plan for the future of mankind.'

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Apart from the traffic and the distant sounds of plaintiff mewing coming from downstairs, the house had lapsed into a dignified silence as Tess moved from room to room, trying to capture in her mind the essence of family life lived here. She wondered whether her husband felt as she did before he left each time, or whether his training and experience enabled him to believe without doubt that he would return.

She sat for a moment on their bed and then wandered to the window. She had noticed the net curtain twitching in the apartment opposite, a sure sign that someone was watching, someone who wasn't very good at what they did. She smiled, thinking what Illya would say, how annoyed he would be, and then turned away, not wanting to think about him too much in case it weakened her resolve to do this thing before she gave way and told him everything.

The girls' bedroom was its usual combination of order and chaos, defined by whether she was looking at Pascale's or Tasiya's side of the room. Ignoring the mess on Tasiya's bed, her gaze was drawn to a small statue on Pascale's desk. She knew it had come from Italy, brought back for his daughter by a father who professed only a passing interest in faith. A card with the usual prayers was propped behind_. Santa Maria del Grazie, ora pro nobis. _Underneath the printing, written in tiny, neat handwriting that she recognised, he had written,

'_Our Lady of Grace, Star of the Sea; pray for this family; pray for me_.'

Sitting down on the bed, she grasped the card, holding it away as the tears ran down her face pooling on the hand which held the card. As the doorbell's ring shattered the silence, she gently replaced it before slowly descending the stairs towards the figure in shadow on the other side of the front door.

xxxxxxxx

Napoleon ripped at the seals covering the box from pharmacy, before emptying the contents onto the desk in front of him.

'I still think he's not told us everything' Illya said, standing the other side of the desk, and carefully extracting the lab coat from the other items scattered across it.

'Well we still have plenty of bargaining power. He's obviously not keen to get out on the street again anytime soon, and I think he may have something he's keeping for use as a bargaining tool' Napoleon replied, watching Illya draw a small phial from the deepest recesses of Miranda Jones' lab coat.

'How did you know . . .'

'I wear one of these too, remember. This pocket here has an inner lining which is really good for secreting things you don't want someone to find too easily' Illya said smiling. 'We can add that to the other pharmaceutical samples which we removed on our otherwise fruitless mission to Norway.'

He picked up a padded envelope and added the phial, writing a note on the outside and then sealing it with a length of bright yellow tape.

'I'll take it' Connie said, holding out her hand towards him, 'then you boys can tidy up that mess before I get back.' Illya groaned slightly, before starting to return the items to the box.

'She makes my mother appear relatively reasonable' he muttered.

'Your mother is the soul of reasonableness' Napoleon replied. 'So when is she getting back, dare I ask?'

'Very soon, so she says in her last letter. That information followed a two page lecture after I informed her she was to be a grandmother again.' Napoleon sat down and put his feet on the desk once Illya had moved the box onto the floor.

'Well I'm sure your lovely wife will be very pleased to see her. You're gonna need all the help you can get.'

Illya sighed and then picked up the phone.

'Talking of my lovely wife, this is the third time I've tried to reach her, without success.' After a while, he put the phone down, and picked up his jacket. 'I'm going home, Napoleon. You can finish off with Page and then I'll be back by lunchtime to report to Waverly. I'm going to call in on our friendly surveillance team first, and then see if I can catch her in.'

'Don't even think of questioning Anya' Napoleon said, standing up. 'Whatever Page said about Arshavin's connection with THRUSH, we still don't know who Anya is working for, and we don't want to let her know that we know about him. And I don't believe for a second that Page knows nothing about Yvonne.'

'Hm. Well he should be a little more in the mood to talk now he's had a few hours in our lovely security unit' Illya replied. 'I hear the food makes Friday evening in the canteen look like dinner at the Four Seasons'.

'OK, call me when you get there' Napoleon said as the door slid to behind the Russian.

xxxxxxxx

'So, how are you feeling?'

Therese put down her glass of water and put her hand on her abdomen.

'Really good now. I've been eating to rival Illya and I've even been down to the swimming pool several times.'

'That's great. Oh, by the way, the guys from Communication made you this. It's a kind of compilation of your favourite music, I think. Look, they've even supplied the tape recorder.' Tess stared at the tape in Yvonne's hand, and then at the equally small tape recorder she had placed on the table. It reminded her of the sort of thing Connie used to transcribe letters in Illya and Napoleon's office. She picked up the tape, trying not to let her hand shake too much.

'What sort of music is on it? I didn't know they knew what I liked.' Yvonne flushed a little, and stared fixedly at the tape recorder.

'Oh I suppose Illya must have told them. Why don't we take our drinks upstairs and I'll put it on.' Tess nodded and got up, picking up the glass, as Yvonne slipped the tiny tape into the machine. With a sinking feeling, she realised that unless it was an enormous coincidence, Anya was at least aware of what was going to happen. A

feeling of panic, not for herself, but for her children, rose up in her, making her stumble, the glass suddenly falling and smashing on the floor.

Yvonne quickly put the recorder down on the table, running to the sink and bringing back a cloth.

'Here, grasp onto the table if you feel dizzy. I'll clear up. You go upstairs Tess, and lay down for a minute.'

'I'm fine, I . . . just felt a little shaky' Tess replied, taking a deep breath and then walking slowly out of the room and up the stairs towards the back room overlooking the garden.

She lay down on the leather sofa, thoughts of all the children swarming round her head like bees. Her plan, seemingly so simple when it had presented itself to her in hospital, now appeared to be a stupid, senseless thing, doomed to failure and leaving her family vulnerable and unprotected. Suddenly she longed for Illya to come, felt that he was coming. She lay down and heard the sound of steps coming into the room.

'Now, let's see, where is the nearest socket?' Tess closed her eyes, her head pounding at the thought of what was coming. Her ears, straining to hear the sound of the door opening, were not ready for the sudden loudness of the music bursting into the stillness of the room.

_You're just too good to be true_

_Can't take my eyes off of you_

_You feel like heaven to touch_

_I wanna hold you so much_

_At long last love has arrived_

_And I thank God I'm alive_

_You're just too good to be true_

_Can't take my eyes off of you_

She closed her eyes, lulled by the unexpectedly smooth sound of the music. Andy Williams. She almost wanted to laugh at it, remembering Illya's horrible grimace when Napoleon produced the LP one evening and insisted on playing it, dancing with her while the Russian pulled faces at them from the sofa. She had dragged him up, and then he had unexpectedly whispered the words in her ear as they had danced.

_You're just too good to be true_

_Can't take my eyes off of you_

The change in the tape was subtle but shocking. The smooth relaxing tones were replaced by the insidious words of the person she feared and detested.

_Therese, listen to me. _

She froze, not having to act, her fear causing her to appear exactly as if the drug was truly in her blood.

_You will no longer recognise the name Therese Kuryakin, or your husband Illya Kuryakin or the names and faces of your children. All will be strangers to you. This is the beginning of a new life. When I have finished speaking, you will hear me count from five to one. Then you will follow the directions of the woman who will speak to you first. _

It was almost unbearable to concentrate on what followed. Another person was described, someone she would not want to know or have anything to do with, but someone she would now have to become if she was to do what she had determined to carry out. After an eternity, the voice stopped.

_Five, four, three, two, one. _

There was a whirring sound as the tape finished and spun round, before Tess heard the click of the stop button. She sat up slowly, and then stood up.

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The cab dropped him outside St Clare's church, the sounds of laughter from the playground of the school attracting his attention. Illya desperately wanted just to walk up to his front door and go in, but experience, and an uncomfortable feeling building inside him, prevented him. He walked up the path at the side of the church, surprised to see Darryl Moore orchestrating a kind of informal warm-up with a large group of children, some of whom he recognised from Pascale and Pablo's class. After nodding to Sister Luc, a particularly graceful French nun who was Pascale's teacher and was adored by both children, he tapped Darryl on the shoulder, much to the children's amusement.

Darryl immediately broke into a broad smile. They were all, with the exception of Sister Luc, wearing t-shirts with the St Clare's logo on, followed by a large Christian fish symbol and the words 'A fish's tale' emblazoned in large letters across their chests.

'Oh hi, I'm just helping Sister with the summer school' Darryl began. 'Ingo's around here too, somewhere.' Illya smiled, and then drew him away from the children, who had all sat down obediently in front of Sister Luc and were now engaged in singing some uplifting song Illya vaguely recognised from church.

'Darryl, I need your help' he began. 'My house is under surveillance and I want to get in to the apartment we're using opposite and see what they're doing without them knowing I'm coming.' Darryl's eyes bulged slightly, before he assumed his normal Section Two persona. 'OK, no problem. We can take a run round the block and you can break off when you like. There's plenty of stuff in the hall if you want to, like, change.'

Illya looked down at himself. He was wearing his usual suit, not ideally fitted to running round the streets as part of a summer school.

'Thank you. That might be helpful' he said, backing away from Darryl and heading for the open door at the back of the school hall. Inside, piles of t-shirts, shorts and sneakers were arranged on a series of tables, several women helping to arrange them in size order.

Illya approached the table.

'Sister Luc said that you might be able to help me with some of this' he said, smiling, backing away fractionally as two women began to move towards him with rather proprietorial looks on their faces. He recognised one of them as the mother of a particularly large and bossy girl in Pascale's class.

'Oh, I'm sure we can' she began, opening his jacket. 'You sure are weeny compared to my Ed' she said, smiling knowingly at the other woman who was thrusting a t-shirt in his direction, 'but I can see you work out, Mr Kuryakin.' The first woman, whose name was Laverne, grabbed the t-shirt and began to fit it across his chest. Illya could see her friend advancing with some shorts, and decided that he had had enough.

'Thank you ladies' he said politely, grabbing the t-shirt and shorts, 'I'd better hurry before the children miss me.' Grabbing some sneakers and a baseball cap he thought were his size, he backed away into the corridor towards the nearest men's room.

Darryl had marshalled the children into some kind of order by the time he appeared. Miraculously, the clothes seemed to fit, so ramming the cap on, he followed them along the path towards the main road. As he began to move towards the centre of the group, he felt a firm hand grip his arm.

'Mr Kuryakin. I was wondering how Pab was doin'; I've really missed him, Mr Kuryakin.' Illya swung round slightly to confront the rather sad face of Marvin Rota in front of him. He stopped, putting his hand onto the boy's shoulder. In all the drama of the past weeks, somehow Pablo's friend had been forgotten, at least by him.

'Marvin; thank you for asking. He's still in a coma, I'm afraid, but I'm hoping that it won't be for much longer.' Marv's face seemed drained of its normal vitality. He looked down, hardly able to look Illya in the face.

'Marvin, what time do you finish here?'

'Three o'clock Mr K. My sis is collecting me, that is, if she remembers. She's got a new guy and they're all steamed up about each other, if you get my drift.' Illya nodded.

'When you finish here, Mr Moore will bring you to where I work, you remember? We'll go and visit Pablo together. I'll get someone to ring your sister.' Marvin fell against him, almost winding Illya with his embrace.

'Thanks, Mr Kuryakin . . .'

'Don't tell me, I'm a swell guy'.

'Got it in one, Mr K.'

They were almost onto the pedestrian crossing by now, Marvin wedged next to Illya as they filed carefully across the road. He could see the house and the apartment opposite; nothing appeared to be happening on either side of the road.

'OK kids, we're gonna start jogging now, down Grove St' Darryl shouted, starting to run on the spot, 'keep together, and when I say bunch, we run like this on the spot for a minute, right?.'

'Marv, I'm going to disappear shortly' Illya whispered, as they started to move along the street, 'so I'll see you about half three.' Marv gave him a knowing look as they approached the apartment.

'Bunch!' Darryl shouted.

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Sergei Arshavin turned away from the front window, the woman and two girls facing him glaring at him simultaneously as if they had orchestrated the look between them.

'Girls, this is my husband, Sergei Gregorovitch Arshavin. Polina, please would you take Tasiya upstairs and bring down the two suitcases that you will find under your beds please.' Pascale's expression, the pure look of her father, his penetrating stare, pierced Anya as if the girl had come up to her and stabbed her.

'Polina, please.' Pascale, directing a last devastating look at Arshavin, took hold of Tasiya's hand and left the room, the younger girl's voice echoing away up the stairs as Anya turned back to her husband.

'I cannot take them back, Sergei, and what is more, I do not think that Moscow has issued the order to do so. I will give you an hour to leave now before I ring the Embassy and request clarification.'

The sound of a car drawing up outside the house momentarily diverted Arshavin from an amused contemplation of his wife. He turned and drew back the net curtain slightly, before dropping it again and drawing his gun.

'Don't worry Anya' he began, walking past her and opening the front door to admit two men Anya had never seen before into the living room. 'You can salve your conscience with regard to your lover and his children. The final destination for all of you is of a somewhat more exotic clime.'

He signalled to the taller of the two men.

'Get the two children from upstairs and get them in the car now. If they make a fuss, you know what to do.'

'Don't hurt them Sergei, I beg you' Anya said, hearing the pleading in her voice and not being ashamed of it. Arshavin grasped her arm, forcing her against the wall of the room.

'Oh I won't hurt them' he hissed almost in her face. 'They're worth too much to my colleagues. After all they've invested a considerable amount in Pascale Kuryakin's education already. Now THRUSH will have the considerable talents of two Kuryakins to employ in the eventual destruction of UNCLE and everything it stands for.'

Her shocked expression was so enjoyable that Arshavin was momentarily diverted from what the smaller of the two THRUSH men was saying.

'Boss, we need to get to the seaport; otherwise we'll be in Hamilton too late for the pickup.' Anya affected a greater anguish than she already was feeling while her mind furiously digested the import of the agent's words.

Hamilton. She could hear Arshavin's words repeating; '_the final destination for all of you is of a somewhat more exotic clime.' _An image of Illya immediately came to mind, one from their time together in Gorky. It had been a brutal day, freezing cold, with a bitter wind coming off the river and making even the stoical Kuryakin shiver. As they stood by the samovar in his apartment drinking tea, he had begun to talk of other, warmer places than the one they stood in. He had described a few favourite ones, and people he knew there. Some escaped her memory, but one stood out. _I have a friend who plays the trumpet in a land of turquoise sea and pink sands_' he had said simply, smiling at her over his tea.

Anya heard the girls in the corridor; Tasiya's quavering voice asking for her mama; Pascale's calm tones, reassuring the younger child, assuring her that all would be well.

'Papa will come, Tasiya, he will find us' she heard Pascale say, her heart lurching.

'I must fetch their coats and hats if we are going far' she said formerly. 'You can come with me if you insist.' Arshavin smiled unpleasantly.

'Anushka; always solicitous for what belongs to that man. I doubt that he even gives you a second thought, but I suppose we have something in common in that respect; because I, like him, rarely think about you at all.'

Anya pushed past him, and ran down the stairs towards the kitchen. Rusalka, now seemingly adjusted to family life, lay contentedly in a small wicker basket by the boiler, basking in the sun's rays entering through the glass of the kitchen door. Picking up one of Tasiya's pencils from the table, Anya knelt down and gently unscrewed the little silver cylinder hanging from the kitten's neck. She could hear Tasiya's voice reverberating in her head, '_we can send a secret message to papa'_ as she carefully removed the paper from inside and turned it over. Glancing towards the door from where she'd come, she wrote,

'_We will search for the trumpeter across the turquoise sea and the pink sand'_.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

'Hi, and what are you doing here?' Napoleon slipped into the chair next to his wife, glancing between her and Waverly for an answer to his question.

'Josefina has solved the mystery of Miss Shumway, and not before time' Waverly interrupted, as Jo gently shoved one of her yellow pads in front of him.

'I told you I thought I knew her' she said, pointing to the name at the top of the pad. 'I had a look through all the files I kept on young women I've had dealings with going back a few years and I finally came up with this.' She pushed a file towards him, with the name '_Peronella – Lebensborn'_ on the front.

Napoleon breathed in deeply and opened the file. It hardly seemed possible that they had been on that island three years ago and that the author of all the suffering and death which happened during that affair was still very much alive and out there somewhere, threatening their own lives and those of countless others. On the top of a thick sheaf of papers, was a form, upon which was stuck a small photograph of a younger, but unmistakeable Yvonne Shumway.

'Her name has changed, but that's her' Jo continued over his shoulder. 'She's one of those _Lebensborn_ girls, you remember?' He did indeed. Bolt, from her all-female island headquarters, had planned the eventual takeover of the world by a series of super females bred from women she had recruited in one way or another. He could see from the details that Yvonne, whose name appeared to be 'Cole' on the form, had run away from her US Army family, who were then stationed in Germany, and had eventually wound up working for the pharmaceutical company Bolt controlled, and from which she had taken many of her female victims.

'So what's Bolt's hold on her?' Napoleon said, still staring at the form.

'Turn over. Look, she had a little girl; she must be just a bit older than Fabian.'

'Mr McGregor has been working with our friend Mr Page whilst you've been otherwise engaged, Mr Solo' Waverly said suddenly, glancing over his spectacles at Napoleon's newly cut hair and clean shaven face. Waverly raised his eyebrows before continuing, 'he has revealed, eventually, that Miss Shumway was a frequent visitor to Mr Hoang's apartment, and that Hoang has some sort of control over her. We can only assume that the girl is being held by him until Miss Shumway fulfils her part in this plot.'

A loud buzzing from the intercom behind Waverly's head drowned out any further conversation. He spun round and yanked the microphone towards him, saying rather abruptly,

'What is it? I thought I gave instructions not to be disturbed for the next half hour?'

'I'm sorry sir, but Mr Solo asked me to contact him if there were any irregularities in the reports coming from the surveillance at Grove Street.' Napoleon jerked out of his seat and came round the table towards the microphone.

'What is it Wanda?'

'It's Mr Davis, sir. He's reporting in on time, but the code word you asked me to tell him to say each time? He's stopped saying it.'

'Wanda, get me Mr Kuryakin, now, please.'

xxxxxxxx

Darryl Moore's group had more than covered Illya's entry into the apartment. The ground floor reminded him of his own house when it was divided, when he and Therese had lived adjoining but separate lives on the ground and first floor of the house which stood opposite. He passed by the door leading to the ground floor flat and began to move silently up the staircase, his gun drawn. Frowning, he noticed that the door to the upstairs apartment was fractionally open and he could hear someone's voice speaking; it sounded like John Davis, although the tone was rather monosyllabic as if he was reading from a script.

Illya paused momentarily before edging the door open with his gun and entering the apartment. The corridor led directly to the large room at the front, a small kitchen and a bathroom opening off it on the way. Davis' voice continued to drone on as Illya crept up the corridor, and then suddenly ceased, making Illya freeze for a moment in anticipation of one of the agents moving his way. He frowned again, wondering briefly why Ricky Stellito seemed so curiously silent, considering that, on the only occasion Illya had met him, he had had plenty to say for himself. He shrugged and came nearer to the doorway.

Davis' voice suddenly started up again. He was obviously checking in to UNCLE headquarters, giving details of the surveillance operation, not that there seemed anything to report. Illya quietly stepped into the room and raised his gun.

Ricky Stellito was lying on the floor, a bullet hole in his temple, part of his brains spilled out onto the carpet by his head from the proximity of the shot. Facing Illya, Davis sat with his gun pointing directly towards him, his other hand holding his communicator into which he was speaking.

'Davis out.' He laid down the communicator without taking his eyes off Illya, and then continued, 'What is your name and rank?' in the same monotonous tone Illya had heard him speaking before.

'John? Tell me what's happened.' He stepped forward, but Davis maintained his aim.

'What is your name and rank? I need to know, then I'll tell you.'

'My name is . . . . Martin Luther King. I work for THRUSH Central.'

The effect on Davis was startling. He lowered his gun immediately and assumed a kind of frozen position on the chair. Illya stood for a moment, before coming over and taking the gun from his hand, as his communicator began to sound. It was only then that he heard the sound of a car in the road, pulling away from outside his house.

xxxxxxxxxx

It seemed like a lifetime, but according to Illya's watch, the recovery team were in the apartment inside fifteen minutes. He desperately wanted to go to the window but sat resolutely, his gun aimed at Davis, until Napoleon had run in ahead of the Section Three men coming to deal with the two agents.

'Did he tell you anything?' He had run to the window as soon as Davis was safely in custody, but the street had returned to its normal appearance, and the only change he identified was in his mother's house, where he saw a figure moving about behind the heavy net curtains in the front bedroom.

'No; he only wanted to know who I was so that he could blow my brains out.'

They had conducted a cursory examination of the room, but there was no sign of the tape recorder or any other evidence which might tell them the real story of what was happening across the street or indeed what had happened in the room in which they stood. Napoleon followed Illya down the stairs and across the road, wondering why the Russian was now dressed in what appeared to be a grown up version of some kids' Summer School outfit. Illya glanced momentarily at his mother's house, before searching for his key.

'The security controls are not on' he said, turning round, before pushing open the door and entering.

'There's nobody in' Napoleon began, receiving a withering look from his partner.

'Obviously.' Illya stopped in the corridor and faced his partner. 'Napoleon, I need to search this house now. It could be that they are all just out for the day, or, as I think from the trouble someone has gone to over the road, Therese and the girls are now far away from here.' Napoleon frowned. Kuryakin seemed outwardly composed, but whatever awaited him upstairs might be too much to bear, even for someone as rigidly self-controlled as Illya Kuryakin was.

'No. We need to search; together.'

Illya looked up, the t-shirt making the increase in his breathing more obvious. He nodded and then turned quickly and headed up the stairs.

They searched the top rooms efficiently, but quickly, until they reached the girls' room. Napoleon followed his partner's lead and directions, allowing Illya to handle the items on Pascale's side of the room, while he went through Tasiya's huge collection of soft toys and re-arranged them on the bed. Illya opened the wardrobe door, and then suddenly left the room, returning a few moments later.

'Look at this' he said, pointing to a small brown suitcase at the top of the wardrobe. It was startlingly old-fashioned, with little labels and pictures of places stuck onto the outside. 'It was Tess' old suitcase' he explained. 'Pascale loves it and always uses it. Tasiya's case is gone, so why has Pascale not taken hers? Unless . .' He ran back into the room Napoleon called 'the smooching room' much to Illya's annoyance. At the end of the lines of books on both sides was a small, high cupboard. Illya pulled it open, revealing a number of cases neatly stacked on top of each other.

'Hmm.' He knelt down and felt underneath a shelf. Instantly a drawer seemed to spring out of the wall, the interior filled with a series of neat packages. On one side, however, several were missing.

'You keep explosives in the house?' Napoleon said incredulously. Illya looked up.

'They're perfectly safe. At least I thought they were. She must have watched me . . .' He got up and returned the drawer to the wall. 'She's taken one of my suitcases, you know the one with the false bottom, and . . .'

'stowed some explosive in it. She sure isn't your run of the mill ten year old.'

'You do your room while I look in the boys'' Napoleon said diplomatically, receiving an affirmatory nod from his partner. He had still been sorting through yet more soft toys, when Illya had appeared in the doorway. He had changed into another suit, the formality of it increasing the scruffiness of his unshaven face and wild hair. In normal circumstances, Napoleon couldn't have resisted commenting on the Russian's appearance, but something about his expression silenced him.

'Come in here' Illya said, turning and going into the room.

The drawer on Tess' side of the bed was open. Her wedding ring, necklace and favourite earrings were inside.

'She would never leave them like this' Illya said, staring at them.

'Listen. If she is playing a part, then she wouldn't have wanted to risk taking them' Napoleon said, shutting the drawer slowly. 'She probably didn't have much time.'

Illya sat on the bed, and slowly clawed his hair back from his face.

'Don't say this is your fault, Illya' Napoleon said. 'We have to concentrate on finding Bolt or Hoang or whatever his or her name is, and if we do that, we will find Tess and the children too, you know that.' Illya stared at him, and then looked away.

'Do I? Thanks to the fact that I put finding that woman before the safety of my family and thanks to those fools over there', he said, nodding towards the other side of the street', my wife now has taken it upon herself to do the job we have signally failed to do in the last three years and at least three, four of my children if you count the baby, are in danger. And we still have no idea either where the virus is being made or, Napoleon, even if it is the same place, where my family is being taken to.'

Illya stood up and walked out of the room, his footsteps for once making loud thuds on the stairs as he headed down. Napoleon followed, eventually finding him in the corridor by the sitting room.

'Can you hear something?' Napoleon strained his ears, not sure what he was supposed to be listening for. After a few moments' silence, he heard a very high-pitched crying sound coming from the direction of the kitchen.

'Got any more babies stashed away you haven't told me about?' he offered, receiving another exasperated look from the Russian as they moved slowly towards the sound downstairs.

'Since when did a baby mew?' Illya said, opening the kitchen door and walking towards a basket by the boiler. He knelt down, picking something up out of the basket and then turning round.

'Hello, and who are you?' he said softly. The kitten immediately began to purr, licking Illya's hand. Bringing her over to the kitchen table, Illya gently sat down, the kitten now firmly attached to his hand.

'I think he or she likes you' Napoleon said, drawing out a chair.

'I think it's a she' Illya replied, fingering the kitten's collar. 'Ah, you're called Rusalka, are you?' He fiddled with the little silver cylinder for a few moments, before letting it go. 'They must have got her while I was in Norway' he murmured, stroking the now loudly purring kitten. Napoleon smiled, enjoying the brief respite the little animal had brought them. She was certainly beautiful, the collar and little cylinder very classy looking.

'Illya, just a minute. Just hold her while I . . .' He grasped the collar, the kitten giving him a rather reproachful look then settling to gaze adoringly into Illya's eyes again. Unscrewing the barrel, he carefully withdrew a small piece of white paper.

On one side the name _Rusalka Kuryakin_ was written, with the address carefully printed below it. Napoleon turned over the paper, and then passed it to his partner.

'Do you understand what this means?' Illya glanced at the paper, then, carefully putting the kitten back into the basket, pulled out his glasses.

'Yes, I think I do' he said, smiling for the first time in what seemed an eternity.

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	6. Chapter 6

PART SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY

The interrogation unit was unusually empty, Napoleon mused, glancing at the bank of monitors above the guard's head. Apart from the pacing figure of Alan Page in the top left hand screen, he could only see three other occupants; a shortish, slight looking man with a terrible comb-over slumped across a table, a rather trashy looking blonde who seemed to be obsessed with her nails and John Davis, sitting rigidly on a chair as if waiting to be woken up from a trance.

'Where's Lori?' Napoleon asked, staring at the clipboard in front of him on the desk.

'Upstate; you know, at the new facility? Seems she has the same problem as Mr Davis' the guard replied, turning his head and staring at Alan Page slamming his hand against the wall of the cell. 'They're taking Davis there later; seems that Dr Woodward is working on something to help them both.'

'Who's the other guy?' Napoleon continued.

'Some English professor Mr McCaffery brought in. Believe it or not, that's his wife in the next cell' he said, turning back to his paperwork and giving Napoleon a knowing look.

'Really?' Napoleon said, unconsciously smoothing his hair, 'perhaps she values his intellect over his looks'.

'Yeah, course she does' the guard replied, getting up and moving down the corridor ahead of Napoleon.

Page's face changed from relief to a kind of sly readiness as Solo entered the room.

'About time' he spat, walking away from Napoleon and leaning against the wall as Solo sat down.

'You wanted to talk' Napoleon said calmly. Page grinned rather unpleasantly and then walked over to the chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down.

'I don't like it here' he began in a rather wheedling voice. 'My needs aren't being met'.

'Oh gee, I'm sorry to hear that' Napoleon replied, looking at his watch. He got up. 'I'm sorry, but I really don't have the time to spare today, so if there's nothing more . . .' Page's voice cut in, the tone suddenly harsh and serious.

'Yeah, there is, Mr Solo. That is, if you still want to be a father by the end of tomorrow.'

Napoleon felt himself stiffen, but forced his face into a neutral stare as Page continued to grin at him in a way that made Napoleon want to punch him out cold there and then.

'Perhaps you'd like to explain that last sentence' he said coolly, sitting down.

Page breathed in, a look of insufferable superiority flushing across his face.

'What do I get?' he said, leaning back on his chair.

'What do you want?'

'I want a new identity; you know, like the FBI give people who testify against the Mafia' he began excitedly. 'I've seen it on TV; the guy helps them out and then he gets a new life.' Napoleon sighed. Before he could reply, Page began again, his voice rising slightly as he spoke. 'I bet that Hoang guy is on your top ten list, right? Whatever that THRUSH meeting he's going to is about, he is pretty convinced that come the end of it, he'll be top dog.' As he talked, Napoleon couldn't help but notice that the rather affected Bostonian drawl was fading into what sounded like the more nasal accent of someone from Hoboken, New Jersey.

'Mr Page', Napoleon interrupted, 'I'm sorry, but what exactly is my family to do with all this? Page leaned forward, obviously warming to his task.

'Look, I've told you about that Russian creep and the lovely Miss Shumway' he said. 'I wasn't party to exactly what Hoang's up to in that regard, but he seems to have a thing about your partner's family and it seems to extend to you, Solo. Whatever sort of future he's planning, it don't include that blond nut job you hang around with, it don't include you, and it sure don't include your boys; just in case one of them might grow up and come round looking for him sometime.'

Before Napoleon could speak, Page had stood up. Without warning, he snatched off his glasses, the frames spinning across the table as he clutched one hand to his throat and emitted a horrible sound, part scream, part rasping cough. Napoleon hit the emergency button under the table as Page collapsed on the floor, his mouth beginning to fill with something Napoleon immediately recognised. He knelt down, and then slammed his fist hard on the floor beside the dead's man's head.

xxxxxxx

Illya rubbed the mirror with his hand. Through the opaque frame of steam worried eyes confronted him, their colour accentuated by the white foam covering his face. He picked up his razor and started to scrape it across his chin. Shaving in this room was often a pleasant experience, although seldom a solitary one nowadays he thought. His space was so often invaded by at least one of his children, even the girls not being daunted by the sight of their semi-naked father with a razor in his hand. It seemed that sitting on the bath watching him shave was the place to have any number of discussions on whatever concerned them at the time. Anastasiya in particular enjoyed it immensely. He couldn't help but smile at the memory of their last conversation in this room.

'Papa' she had said seriously, a ferocious expression building on her face, 'how old will I be when I have to start shavin', only Pabby said ladies shave, he did.' He had groaned and shook his head before replying, as he did so often,

'Ask your mama,_ lapin_; she'll explain.'

He put down the razor and shut his eyes for a moment, holding onto the sink to steady himself. A feeling of such raw pain swept through him that for a few seconds he was stunned by its sheer power to overwhelm him. He stood motionless, until, as the feeling receded, he was able to open his eyes again and continue mechanically to scrape the razor over his face. He avoided looking in any more mirrors, dressing at speed and then rushing down the stairs towards the kitchen.

xxxxxx

'Well, what do you say? I need some time to work and think, you two need a holiday whatever you say, and when your family turn up, you can work on them to join us.'

Misha Kuryakin smiled expansively, a quite different smile to Illya's, Marina thought. Despite the fact that they looked identical, she still felt she could see the child Misha Shevchenko in his smile. They had grown up together, she had saved his life, and now, through some terrible experience that both Illya and Misha refused to tell her about, he had returned to her family in the most unexpected and initially alarming way.

'They're your family too now, Misha' she had replied, sitting back on the sofa.

They had arrived in the early hours of the morning, having spent several days in London with Misha before the onward journey to New York. Marina had been unwilling to admit it, but the trial of Konstantin Blau, and her part in it, had left her drained mentally and physically. Her testimony had been painful, but the cross-examination had been worse, the lawyer for the defence endlessly attempting to paint her as a Ukrainian seductress who had willingly enjoyed sex with a brave and noble German officer. Only her husband's support, some rare, but warm phone calls from Illya and some wonderful letters from Theresa had enabled her to survive without losing her sanity in the process.

Misha had contacted them when the trial had finished, hinting that some change was about to happen in his life. They were well aware of his relationship with Brian Pearson and so were surprised when Pearson was not there when they arrived.

'Er, Brian is away at the moment' Misha had said awkwardly, until, with very little encouragement needed, he had told them of his plans. 'Vanya's, my company, is expanding' he had said proudly. 'We're breaking into the American market, so it looks as if I'll be in New York for the foreseeable future'. Apparently, Brian Pearson had not made up his mind whether he wanted to return to New York as well. Misha had shown them his designs, the sort of clothes Marina thought Napoleon and Josefina would love, and Illya, well, they both knew what he was like about clothes.

'I've rented a _huge_ cabin in the Adirondacks' he had said, eyes wide. 'I need a quiet place to work for a while, and I had hoped you all might join me there.'

She had come to a conclusion about the other matter over the next few days. Misha had been ecstatic, but she had warned him that without Illya's agreement, it wouldn't be possible.

'He'll come round' he had said enthusiastically, 'he's just a pussycat really, underneath the stern Russian act.' Marina had smiled, but she wasn't quite as confident about it as Misha was.

'Oh, now look who's here, coming in the back way as per normal, and with a friend it seems'. Misha leapt to his feet from beside Marina and ran to the French windows. Illya stood outside, a pained expression on his face, the kitten Rusalka squirming in his arms.

'What are you doing here?'

'And I love you too Illya Nikovetch. I don't suppose you bothered to look in a mirror before you make your entrance? No, I thought not.' Misha was struck by Illya's expression. It wasn't the usual Illya scowl that he usually just ignored or laughed at; this time he looked almost stricken by something.

Without speaking, Illya shoved the kitten into Misha's arms and walked across the room towards Marina. Sitting down next to her, he suddenly laid his head on her chest, his arm slung loosely round her waist.

'I'll go and annoy Peter with this one' Misha said, stroking the kitten; the joke not masking his worried expression as he left the room.

xxxxxxxx

'I'm sorry mama, I can't tell you anymore.' Marina had been patient, letting him lie there until eventually, after a deep sigh, he had sat up. She tried to remember the last time he had acted in this way, and concluded that it was when Theresa had disappeared before. This time he seemed more controlled, but the pain showed in his eyes as she stroked the long blond hair out of them.

'So, Theresa has chosen to go after this woman, who is now a man, and he has also taken the girls?' she said, continuing to hold his hand gently in hers.

'I think so' Illya replied tentatively.

'You think so? Illyusha, you must find them. She is not capable of hurting a fly, never mind a . . . _creature_ like this person you describe. What is your organisation doing about all this? And where are your sons? Have they been taken by this dreadful woman or man? And is this why you look as if you have been, what do they say, 'hanging in' in one of those Greenwich Village hippie communes?

'Hanging out' mama.' Illya smiled in spite of himself. He rarely saw his mother this animated, but it was usually about either his family or his appearance. This time it was both. His communicator loudly and luckily, interrupted them.

'Illya, Waverly is requesting a meeting immediately. Are you available?' Napoleon's voice sounded uncharacteristically abrupt, causing him to wonder what had happened between his partner and Alan Page.

'I'm at my mother's house. I can come now' he said, immediately attempting to comb back his hair into order with his fingers. 'Er, what happened with Page?' There was a short pause, before Napoleon said, 'I'll brief you when you arrive. Suffice it to say, he got into rather a lather; a_ green_ lather, if you take my drift.'

'What, again?' Illya replied in amazement.

'Seems so. It looks as if Mr Hoang didn't trust his secretary not to spill the beans, the few that he could spill.'

'So, did you get anything from him?' Illya said, getting up.

'As I said, I'll brief you when you get here. Solo out.' Illya stared at the communicator then shoved it back into his jacket.

'Mama, I have to go. Listen, I think you should take up Misha's offer and go to the cabin. Take the boys with you. I'll be back with them later, and . . . I promise to smarten up before you see me again' he said ruefully, touching his hair. At that moment, Misha came back into the room, the kitten nowhere to be seen.

'It's OK, Grandpa Peter is now in charge of kitty' he said smiling. Illya smiled at his mother and pulled Misha out into the corridor.

'Listen, I may need to speak to you before I come home' Illya said, staring at him. He looked Misha up and down as they moved down the stairs towards the kitchen door. 'Incidentally, Misha, what happened to the hippie look? ' Misha grinned, flicking Illya's hair.

'What passed as fine in Carnaby Street just doesn't do with the buyers at Saks' he said, giving Illya a sharp look. 'I had to sacrifice the hair and the brocade trousers on the altar of the fashion business' he continued, and you obviously need my guidance too, by the look of you, Illyusha. I'll be home all day by the way, you can catch me here or maybe next door sorting out your wardrobe.'

Illya grabbed him again by the sleeve as he opened the kitchen door.

'This is serious, Misha. You can do what you like with my clothes, but I may need you to look after the family for me while I'm away. Can you do that?' Misha turned and pulled Illya towards him.

'Whatever you may think, Illyusha, in my heart you are my brother, and I promise you that I will do anything, anything in my power to protect our family from harm.'

'I believe you. Oh, and Misha, mama told me about the adoption. So, I have a real brother now, eh?'

As he went through the door Illya turned towards Misha, his face set.

'Oh remember; set the alarms, and whatever you do, do not touch my black cashmere turtleneck, _mon frère_.'

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

For once, the screen behind Waverly's head was blank. On the table, three sets of files were neatly arranged, Napoleon studying the top one of his pile as Illya hurriedly entered the room.

'Sorry sir, the car played up on the way' he said rather lamely, rubbing his fingers together and staring at Napoleon, who seemed to be resolutely refusing to look up. He had known that Ringo, Therese's beloved open-topped Beetle was misfiring from when he had taken it out before he went to Norway, but he had not had the time to look at it. It had protested loudly all the way to the UNCLE garage where he had tossed the keys to his favourite mechanic, a very petite mid-westerner called Deanna and adjusted his eyes to their most pitiable pleading expression before she had grinned and replied,

'I'll take it down to the garage on East 35th and do it there.'

'What garage on East 35th?'

'Ask your partner. You're away too much, gorgeous' and had blown him a kiss as she shimmied away.

Waverly grunted something indecipherable and waved him to his seat.

'Gentlemen, we need to get on with this. As you can see from the intelligence report from our people in Italy, and judging from what we've been listening to via our surveillance equipment, it appears that the meeting of THRUSH Central in Firenze has been moved to another location which we at present have no information about, seeing that, for once, our THRUSH friends in Europe and here are managing to keep remarkably silent about it.'

'I think I may know where it's going to be held' Illya interrupted, inviting a rather startled look from Waverly.

'Do you, Mr Kuryakin? Perhaps you might like to share that information, seeing that your family is almost certainly directly affected by it.'

Illya dug into his jacket pocket and produced two pieces of paper, which he laid onto the table in front of him. Holding onto the large piece, he swung the table round until Waverly was able to pick up the smaller note as it reached him.

'We will find the trumpeter across the turquoise and the pink' Waverly read, screwing up his expression as he put the note down, but not before he had also read 'Rusalka Kuryakin. If found please return to 10 Grove St, NYC.' He stared across the table at Illya, before saying, 'What on earth does that mean, Mr Kuryakin, and who the deuce is Rusalka Kuryakin?'

Illya licked his lips, still faintly amazed that Napoleon had neither looked up, nor indulged in any smirking backchat of the only amusing to himself Solo variety.

'Er, Mr Solo found it this morning, sir, inside the collar of our pet cat Rusalka' he began. 'From the writing, I think we might deduce that the destination of both Mr Hoang, Therese, the girls and Anya could be Bermuda, and that in fact Anya is not working for either Hoang or THRUSH.'

'We might deduce that, but I'm still in the dark as to how you know all these things from this rather indecipherable message' Waverly replied. 'I had the impression that our people in Bermuda had gone over the place with a fine toothcomb and found nothing at all connected with Hoang or Bolt as she was then. It's true she used the place to launder money at one time, but I was told that the accounts had been closed.'

'That's exactly what Hoang knew we would do sir, which is why he's persuaded them to move the meeting. He will have known that we've crossed it off the list, as it were, and so what would be better than to return there?' Waverly turned away from them, fiddling with something on his control panel before a large and detailed map of Bermuda appeared on the screen behind them.

'Go on, Mr Kuryakin' Waverly said over his spectacles, turning back to gaze at the map.

'Um, the message and the label are both in Anya's handwriting; the description refers to something I told her about how I saw Bermuda when we were trying to keep each other warm on a particularly cold day in Gorky' he continued, sure that he saw the tiniest of smirks appearing on Napoleon's mouth. 'The trumpeter refers to John Robinson, a friend of ours, who lives on Bermuda. He works for the British High Commission, sir. I think that Anya is trying to tell me where they are going and that she will try to make contact with John.' He stopped, watching Waverly as he picked up his pipe and began the ritual which signalled a period of thinking.

Illya turned to Napoleon, determined to find out the cause of his partner's silence.

'Is something wrong?' he murmured, keeping his expression neutral and looking down.

'Yes, you could say that. We need to talk, but not here. I'll take you out to lunch.'

'Are you paying?' There was no verbal reaction to his question, Solo merely nodding and returning his gaze to the papers in front of him. Illya breathed in slowly and frowned, aware that Waverly had picked up the microphone and was talking to someone in another Section.

I think we should accept your theory, Mr Kuryakin, and formulate a plan before something even worse than has happened already takes place. We need to ensure that the remaining members of your families are in safe keeping and that you are both unrecognisable in order to infiltrate this meeting and find your wife and daughters, Mr Kuryakin. I want Mr Solo here to focus on the latter task, leaving you free to find the source of the modified Mumps virus and destroy it, along with any other despicable drugs being concocted there. If we can ascertain that Madame Arshavina is who Mr Kuryakin thinks she is, then it may be that you can enlist her help, Mr Solo. Mr Kuryakin, in order to maintain your disguise, you will have assistance, but not from anyone in operations and enforcement. Please take care of her, otherwise we'll never hear the end of it from . . . . what's his name . . . ?'

'Er, Rudi, sir'. Napoleon's voice cut across the conversation, his manner still reserved, not that Waverly seemed to have noticed.

'Excuse me, sir' Illya said, glancing up as the screen suddenly changed to a picture of a prematurely balding man, wedged up to a rather brittle blonde, who was in the midst of waving a champagne glass at the camera. 'Should I contact the Embassy regarding Anya Arshavina? I do have . . .'

'No, I think that would be unwise' Waverly interjected. Leave that to me, Mr Kuryakin. I'm expecting a call from Moscow shortly and then we should be able to achieve clarification on Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina. No doubt they will expect some sort of deal to be made concerning her and Arshavin' he murmured.

They all turned towards the photograph.

'Aren't they both . . .' Napoleon began, something on the screen making him look even more serious than before, Illya thought.

'In our interrogation unit. Yes, Mr Solo. The man on the left is Professor Roger Henderson, late of Imperial College, London. You may be surprised to know, Mr Kuryakin, that the woman by his side is his wife.' Illya sighed.

'Nothing surprises me nowadays' he murmured.

'We were alerted to Professor Henderson's activities by his research fellow, a Dr Henry Driver, who apparently is a very good friend of our Dr Francis here at UNCLE. Apparently Henderson is one of the world's experts on the mutation of common human viruses; you know, measles, mumps, that kind of thing.' For once Illya felt disinclined to assume his usual air of superiority in these matters and kept his attention fully trained on the photograph.

'Apparently,' Waverly continued, 'Henderson has a weakness for women of the decidedly un-academic variety, which I believe has led to a failed marriage and the mess that he now finds himself in. The woman we have in custody downstairs, the present Mrs Henderson, is partial to a rather more expensive lifestyle than the average English academic's salary will run to. It seems that in order to keep his wife happy, Professor Henderson has indulged in what I think people call 'moonlighting'.' Mr McCaffery was able to waylay him in New York, where apparently the Hendersons, or rather Mrs Henderson was engaging in a spot of shopping on Fifth Avenue, no less. He wouldn't admit where he was going, but McGregor has managed to get out of him that he's attending a very important conference run by the rather interestingly titled 'Misteltoe Trust'. I think we can draw our own conclusions about what that conference is, gentlemen.'

For the first time in the meeting, Napoleon allowed himself a brief smile.

'So, let me see, Mr Kuryakin here is going to Bermuda disguised as Professor Henderson, thus allowing him entry into the THRUSH conference and access to Hoang and his laboratory.'

'Precisely, Mr Solo. As you can see, your disguise is going to have to be heavy, Mr Kuryakin, so we're sending Miss Neustatter along with you, to maintain it and also to play your wife. She has some basic training, but you must not expose her to anything other than the most rudimentary danger.'

'Yes sir.' Illya put his head in his hands and stared at the screen. The man in the picture was about his height and frame, but there the resemblance ended. He sat back, remembering Mitzi Neustatter, a German assistant of Rudi's who had once done terrible things to his hair with brown hair dye and perming lotion. He sighed and glanced across at Napoleon, who had resumed his glum expression and over- concentration on the files in front of him.

There was a sudden bleep on Waverly's intercom system.

'Dr Francis and Dr Woodward would like to speak to you sir. They're out in my office.'

'Send them in Miss Rogers, please.'

Napoleon groaned inwardly as Dr Francis strode in, wearing the usual white lab coat and clipboard combo, closely followed by the infinitely more attractive Dr Giselle Woodward, a pharmacologist who he knew had been working on the Hoang drugs. Giving Solo a less than friendly smile, Dr Francis turned to Illya, an altogether different expression now illuminating her rather pudgy face.

'Dr Kuryakin, how are you now? You look as if you've gained back all that weight you lost.' Illya could see Napoleon's rather acerbic expression behind her and remembered watching the body language between them as they argued soundlessly in front of him while he succumbed to Hoang's variant of the Mumps virus.

'Thank you, Mary, I'm fine now, more or less.'

'Did you look at the result of your sperm count?' she continued, showing no embarrassment or awareness of Illya's bemused expression. 'Amazing, wasn't it? I wanted to talk to you about some research I thought . . .

Waverly cleared his throat loudly and she looked up.

'You had something to report, ladies?' he said, vaguely tapping out his pipe as Giselle Woodward flicked over some typewritten papers on her clipboard.

'Yes sir, it's about the drugs Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin brought back from Norway.' Illya looked up, staring at the Trinidadian pharmacist as she began to speak.

'The first drug, 'Thanaton'. This is a particularly nasty one, sir, with an unusually long time between ingestion and effect. We estimate from our studies it could be any time from five to twenty four hours before the drug took effect. Once ingested, at the moment, we haven't been able to come up with anything to prevent inevitable and painful death, but we're working on it.' Napoleon's mind was drawn back to that morning, watching Page die before he could reveal the details of what he knew was to happen to the children.

'The second one, 'Hypnoterin'. I think you'll be pleased to know that we've managed to produce something which might counteract its effects, Illya.

We think it's designed to induce unconsciousness but not death in the subject; although of course, long-term vegetative states are not beneficial for anyone, are they?' She glanced at Illya, whose expression encouraged her to continue at a more rapid pace. 'Anyway, we think we have an antidote, which we can give Pablo if his father is willing to give permission' she said rather formerly. 'There are a few risks, but without it, he could be unconscious for a considerable time.'

'Um, I'm going up at three, if you could . . ' Illya said gently.

'Of course' Mary Francis replied, glancing at her colleague and immediately going up in Napoleon's estimation.

Giselle Woodward pushed the clipboard out of the way and sat back, turning slightly to Illya again.

The last one of course, is this 'Somatex'. Preliminary reports from the blood of both Mr Davis and Miss Spence show that this drug was used on them to devastating and permanent effect' she said slowly. We have no post-mortem evidence of course, but scans of both their brains show that there have been considerable changes in the part of the brain which is concerned with memory.' She turned her chair so that she was looking directly at Illya.

'In the case of Mrs Kuryakin, Dr Francis asked me to look at her blood' she said quietly. 'Luckily, we had some samples already which we were able to analyse.'

'And . . . ?' Illya said rather abruptly.

'There's no evidence of the drug in her bloodstream.'

'Thank you ladies , we'll expect a fuller written report later' Waverly interrupted, as they quickly rose from their seats and left the room. When they had gone, he laid his pipe on its ashtray and faced the two agents.

'I felt sure that she wasn't drugged' Illya said, and what I found this morning confirmed it as much as that report just has.' He unclasped the piece of paper he'd been holding in his hand since the meeting began and spread it out on the table.

'Is it a letter?' Waverly said. 'I'm surprised she risked leaving you something like that if she actually knew what she was doing.'

'No, it's not a letter' Illya replied. 'It's a wartime code in the form of a poem. Actually, I think you told her about it yourself sir.'

He picked it up and began to read, his deep rich tones filling the room.

_The life that I have  
>Is all that I have<br>And the life that I have  
>Is yours<em>

_The love that I have  
>Of the life that I have<br>Is yours and yours and yours_

_A sleep I shall have  
>A rest I shall have<br>Yet death will be but a pause_

_For the peace of my years  
>In the long green grass<br>Will be yours and yours  
>And yours.<em>

Waverly rose out of his seat and stood with his back facing the two men, staring out at the river.

'Violette Szabo' he said eventually. She was a British shop girl, quite ordinary in many ways, but her dual nationality gave her the ability to speak excellent French. She married a French Air Force pilot of Hungarian extraction who was killed in North Africa. After that, even though she had a young child at home, she volunteered to go into France as an agent. There was minimal training in those days of course, and she was told initially she was unsuitable; too highly strung, I think they said. On her second mission she was captured by the Germans and, despite numerous escapes, eventually taken to Rävensbruck Concentration Camp, where she was executed as a spy. Oh, and it wasn't me that told your wife about Violette, Mr Kuryakin, it was her father. Val knew her; I think he said she was one of the bravest women he had ever met.'

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

For the fourth time in as many minutes, Edvard Zoltan mopped his brow with a conveniently large handkerchief his current mistress had tucked into his suit that morning. The impact of the air conditioning in the house was immediate and delightful, inducing in him a feeling of reassurance that the last minute changes to the conference were worthwhile, despite the huge upheaval from what he considered the delights of Florence to this island, which though exquisite, was not conducive to his Eastern European body or soul.

He threw down his jacket while the rather monosyllabic guard who had met him at the airport laid his cases on the bed and backed out of the room, to be immediately replaced by a girl who, after he had opened them, began to carefully arrange his clothes in the various shelves and spaces of a huge wardrobe. Keeping his attaché case by his side, Zoltan wandered towards the balcony, braving the afternoon heat and humidity.

He saw the girl immediately, but it was hard not to notice her. She was in the pool directly below him, a pair of opaque sunglasses fixed to her eyes and her hair wrapped up in a bright orange scarf as she lay half in the water, half clinging to a bright green sunbed floating in the middle of the pool. She caught sight of him and turning her head stared upwards, the blackness of her sunglasses diverting his eyes to her lips. Her lipstick, an intense red, emphasised their exquisite fullness, made even more magnetic by the pouting look she seemed to be directing towards him. She turned away, and began pushing the sunbed towards the edge of the pool, before flicking it away and walking gracefully up the few sweeping steps under the water at the edge of the pool.

Zoltan inhaled sharply as she turned towards him again. Her swimming costume allowed him to see the contours of her body perfectly, the swollen belly curving out and away from the long slim legs, and then the perfect, large breasts rising above, her long, graceful neck, and then, as she flung off the sunglasses to dry herself, the most exquisite brown eyes. It was difficult to read her, as he had always been able to do with all the women in his life. Her lips had looked inviting, but something in her eyes spoke of something else, something hidden from him.

Suddenly she looked away, her concentration broken by something else. Someone had come out of the series of French windows stretching across the ground floor of the house, and was passing along between the oleanders towards the pool, hidden from Zoltan but clearly recognised by the girl. He saw her breasts rise as she breathed in deeply and then exhaled, her expression changing, as if a mask had been placed over her face. Something hard and determined set on her features as the man, now clearly recognisable to Zoltan, reached her and grasping her chin between his fingers, began to look slowly up and down her body as he put his other hand on her abdomen. Zoltan frowned. Clark Hoang's announcement of his impending marriage had raised eyebrows even amongst the hardest and most cynical of his colleagues at THRUSH Central, but despite what they knew about his past, what he was offering them was too good for any of them not to humour him in this regard.

He continued to watch them, unable to pull himself away from the woman he found so incredibly attractive, and the man he found so deeply disturbing. He asked himself why this particular scene worried him until as she looked up, he knew. However hard she tried, the body language of both was revealing. Fear radiated from her as powerfully as the island's humidity had hit him like a wave as he stood there watching. And Hoang was soaking it in, enjoying it. The way he touched her spoke not of love or even passion, but of the pure enjoyment of control. Whoever this woman was, Zoltan suddenly felt an intense pity for her that until that moment he hadn't realised he was capable of. He turned away quickly and, stripping off his clothes, partook of a very long, very cold shower.

xxxxxxxxx

'Sure you don't want more?' Napoleon pushed a plate towards Illya upon which was the remains of a large and very traditional looking _crostata_, a speciality of Emilio Romagna, where the Portelli family had originated from, and filled, this time, with a delicious plum jam which Napoleon was sure had originated in Rita's kitchen.

Illya, who seemed to have accepted the fact that Napoleon was not going to discuss anything work related until the meal was finished, had now lapsed into rather a pensive mood and continued to stare out of the window of Carmella's Italian restaurant, despite being persuaded to talk about Misha during the meal by his sister in law, sitting next to him. He started a little and shook his head.

'Thank you but I've had enough.' He leaned across the table slightly, without excluding Jo, and said, 'is Josefina here because something else has happened that you didn't want to talk about with Waverly?'

'I'm here because we need to discuss something that involves us all' she said, 'and because Alex already knows what Napoleon has in mind'. Illya nodded, habitually glancing round the room, before returning his attention to Napoleon and Jo.

'Before Page died this morning, he hinted, well more than hinted at something that involved the boys, yours and ours' Napoleon began. He noticed Illya's shoulders droop slightly, and at the same time, Jo move closer to him and entwine her arm into his. 'It appears that Mr Hoang, as I think we should call him now, has no time for anyone of the male gender, particularly those who might grow up and 'come looking for him', as Page put it.'

'Isn't that slightly odd when she's become a man?' Jo interrupted. Illya remained attached to her side, and glanced at Napoleon before saying, 'not really. She hasn't become male because she feels she should have been a man, but merely as a convenience to achieve her warped objectives' he said, a hard look overwhelming his features. 'She couldn't get what she wanted as a woman, so now she's trying as a man, but in truth, Hoang would prefer to not be defined in terms of gender. You remember those names everyone on Peronella had?'

Jo grinned, in spite of the seriousness of the conversation. 'Oh yes, all that 'rock' and 'sand' and names like that. What were you?' Illya sighed. 'Ocean' I believe' he said, looking away, as if the name expressed something about his thoughts.

'Illya,' Napoleon said, drawing him back. 'We have to do something quickly. I'm convinced, from what he said that they intend to act tomorrow at the latest. All this is only a hunch, but I'm sure they will want to do something when you leave home rather than the other way round. I wouldn't be surprised if Hoang has his own men involved, and that they've been watching the pattern of when the children go to the crèche.'

'But there isn't a pattern, is there?' Illya replied, knowing the answer as soon as he'd said it.

'Yes, there is' Jo replied. Since Tessy started at that School, the boys always go to the crèche on Tuesdays, and I expect they know that too by now.'

Before Illya could speak, Napoleon had spread out a small map of Manhattan on the table, held down by their three espresso coffees that had just arrived on the table.

'Look. Jo usually brings Fabian to your house at 7.30 and then goes home to work. They will know that only you are there now, since both Tess and Anya have gone, so if you drive them it won't seem odd. Bring that red Ford you sometimes borrow from the garage back tonight, and then use that in the morning, OK?' Illya stared at the map, and then looked up nonplussed.

'Before we go any further, can I ask you Napoleon, if we know there is an imminent attack on what remains of our family, then why don't we just put them somewhere safe until all this is over?'

'Because we have to ensure that he thinks we are _all_ out of the reckoning' Napoleon replied, tapping the map. 'Unless they think they have succeeded, Illya, nobody is safe' he said, a serious, sad look on his face as he looked down at the map again. 'What I need to know is, can you drive fast enough without endangering your own or anybody else's lives, so that you can get ahead of them by about, say, four minutes, by the time you get to East 35th?'

Illya looked at the map, shaking his head.

'I might, but I'll have three small children in the back. Am I right in thinking that you want me to drive down to the UNCLE garage on East 35th and then, what, change cars?' Napoleon nodded.

'If you could get ahead of them, we have an identical Ford in that garage. With some dummy children in the back you could continue to the next part of the plan' he added, smiling.

'And what is that?' Illya said.

'That is where you crash the car in an alleyway between 2nd and 3rd and East 44th, killing all except you of course. Then you get yourself to HQ where part three of the plan takes place.'

'Just stop a minute' Jo interrupted. 'I don't think Illya can do this; it's just too tight and if he can't make the time up, the whole plan will fail.' Illya sat back, taking a sip of his coffee.

'The plan is good apart from the changeover at the garage' he said. 'However, I have an idea that may work, involving a now very close family member and sadly, forcing me to make a very large sacrifice in the process.'

'Oh?' Napoleon said, frowning. Josefina loosed her arm from Illya's and started to smile.

'I get it' she said. 'Just make sure you take number one twinny along with you to make a very large sacrifice as well, right?'

'Right' Illya said gloomily.

xxxxxxx

The usual sounds of that part of Medical reserved for intensive treatment imprinted themselves on Illya's consciousness as he sat in the small waiting area opposite the nurses' station. He replayed the events over lunch in his mind; Napoleon's plan, and the wisdom of once again involving Misha in it. He had rung him, catching him, predictably, in their bedroom.

'You have some really high-class suits Illya, which seem to be pushed to the back of your closet in favour of the stuff you currently seem to be wearing' he had said despairingly. Illya allowed him to run on, eventually Misha working out that something needed to be asked. Unsurprisingly, he had been delighted to be involved.

'I'll be home later to discuss it' Illya said, before Misha had interrupted, 'so I guess that will involve us needing to look . . .'

'I'll see you tonight' Illya had said and cut him off.

'Good afternoon Mr Kuryakin, sir'. He looked up. Marv, with Darryl smiling just behind him, stood very upright before him. He was immaculately dressed in a white shirt, tie and dark trousers, his shoes polished to a mirror like quality Illya faintly envied.

'We met Rudi in the corridor downstairs and he did the rest' Darryl murmured.

'You look extremely smart, Marvin' Illya said, standing up. 'But 'Mr Kuryakin' is fine'. They moved towards Pablo's room, the last one in a bank of three rooms, the first two thankfully not occupied, Illya thought, Darryl lingering in the doorway while Illya and Marv sat down by the side of the bed.

The hanging from Tess' room had somehow transferred itself to this room, brightening its functional dreariness with its myriad images and messages. Illya could see that she had added her own touches; bright swirls of what looked like oil paint linked the various parts of the hanging. She had also pinned a number of new photographs, including, to his horror, one of himself with the purple trousers, Tess at his side laughing into the camera, her hair swirling round her head, showing off her long neck so beautifully.

'Pab, guess who, yes my man, got it in one' Marv started immediately, launching into an animated conversation with the silent figure on the bed including a detailed blow by blow account of the summer school with lurid descriptions of various personalities which Illya tried not to look too horrified by.

A hand on his shoulder alerted him to Giselle Woodward's presence. He got up, leaving Marv for a moment in full flow, now describing what sounded like a fairly lethal game of shooting nets between Sister Luc, Ingo and Father Gabriel. She led him out into the foyer, Darryl keeping watch over the two boys.

'I need your signature on this before we can proceed' she said, her dark, soft accent warming the place as she laid down the sheet of paper in front of him. 'I can't guarantee it'll work, Illya' she said when he'd signed.

'I know'. They walked back into the room, Giselle going round to the other side of the bed and staring down at Pablo for a moment, before turning away to prepare the injection she had brought in with her. Someone had cut his fringe, leaving the rest long, emphasising his dark skin tone and long, thick eyelashes. For a moment, and not for the first time, Illya saw his wife lying there; her dark eyelashes, her dark hair, her sultry skin tones. He forced back a choking sensation in his throat and looked away, aware that Giselle was now staring at him.

'He looks like her, amazing, hey?' she said. 'Perhaps if you live with someone for long enough, and love them for long enough, you get to be like them.'

'Yes, perhaps you do' he said. 'At any rate, I'm hoping so.'

Marv suddenly stopped talking, looking worriedly between them.

'It's OK Marvin' Illya began reassuringly. 'This is Dr Woodward. Giselle, this is Marv, Pablo's very best friend.' He saw Marv beam with pride at the description, before looking seriously at the syringe.

'Dr Giselle here is going to try and wake Pablo up' Illya continued. He nodded to Giselle, who, after rubbing Pablo's arm with a swab, inserted the needle and slowly injected the liquid into his arm.

For a few minutes, which felt more like hours to Illya, nothing seemed to happen. Pablo's breathing remained the same, his chest lifting and falling in the same monotonous way it had since he had first been laid in that room. Illya took his hand, feeling its smallness, the long, graceful fingers lying, as ever, lifeless on his own living hand. Then imperceptibly at first, the fingers began to curl and stretch, as if they, on their own, were the first to wake. Illya stared down at them, and then leaned over towards Pablo's face. The eyelashes, normally so still, suddenly trembled slightly, before, as if for the first time, they slowly opened.

Illya dropped the hand and, clapped both of his own to his face, hiding his rapidly blinking eyes from the gaze of the other three, for Pablo was now gazing at him too.

'_Merci; oh merci'_ he gasped, feeling Giselle's hand on his shoulder again, before she slipped from the room.

'That was kind of him to thank you' a nurse murmured as she passed her.

'Oh, he wasn't thanking _me_' Giselle said.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The constant rocking motion of the boat on the waves was beginning to make Anya feel slightly nauseous, as she gazed over the side towards a heavy sun hanging in the distance. Pascale had confined herself to monosyllabic answers since they had pulled away from the kerbside in New York that morning, concentrating on calming the little girl who had clung to her side from that moment. The look on the girl's face had spoken of disgust and betrayal, but she had managed to convey a different message to her sister.

'_N'aie pas peur, Tasiya'_ she had whispered, '_Le Seigneur nous sauvera_.'

They had been bundled on board the yacht at the seaport. It was one of those vessels Anya had seen docked since she'd been in New York, imagining the sort of rich American capitalist that owned such a craft, and how many workers had been exploited to pay for it. It was called '_Vanir_', a name which meant nothing to her until she had overheard two of the boat's crewmen talking.

'Yeah, one of those Viking fertility type names' one had said, 'means the gods who are into all that sort of stuff.'

'What sort of stuff?' the other had said, obviously receiving a look that Anya didn't see but which, from the other man's crude response, explained a lot.

Looking back at what had happened, Anya realised now that she had allowed her husband to isolate and manipulate her into the position she now found herself. What had seemed a sensible reporting procedure she now saw as a way of cutting off her contact with Moscow, Arshavin no doubt claiming that she was under deep cover, her position with UNCLE fatally undermined if she reported directly to either the Embassy or to the higher echelons back home. She had agreed to her husband's plan, believing that she could somehow communicate them to Illya before it was too late. The sudden change in time and place had taken her by surprise, and she had no idea now whether he had found her message, or still believed that she had not betrayed him and his family, as Pascale believed that she had. Even if she was able to save the children from whatever destiny awaited them on Bermuda, there was no guarantee that her superiors would accept her story. Either way, on Bermuda or even if she could return back home, her future appeared desperately bleak. She pushed her hair from her face and stepped back from the rail before slowly retracing her steps down the narrow stairs to her cabin.

xxxxxxxx

Illya pushed open the door of the shop, noting the new, rotating illuminated barber's pole above, inviting willing or unwilling customers to enter. He had left Napoleon a short note in their office before collecting the boys, Marv entertaining Connie with a blow by blow account of his visit to Medical at the same time.

'We have a meeting with Mr Waverly at six' he had finally managed to get in; I think Napoleon will be in before then and needs to talk to you about a few things.'

They had continued down to the crèche, the two boys heavily engaged in some sort of infant assault course on a mat on the floor, from which they had to be extracted before Illya could put on their shoes and lead them towards the way out. He had already arranged for the red Ford to be parked outside Del Floria's, the boys big and small excitedly gathering round it on the pavement outside as Illya searched for the keys in his pocket.

'Wow! Swell car Mr K! Hey, it's a Mustang eight cylinder right? My pa says they use a lot of juice though.' Illya opened the door and when Marv had forced his way in, passed the boys through to him.

'Yes, it's a good car, if you like that sort of thing' he said, moving away and along 44th East. 'Um, Marvin, are you in a hurry? I wondered if we could call in somewhere on the way home.'

'No problemmo, Mr Kuryakin. My sis's new guy will be halfway down her throat by now, so I can be at your service.' Illya winced at his description, before stopping outside Frank's.

'Oh great, Uncle Frank's' Marv shouted in Illya's ear, the twins starting their usual '_unca Frank'_ mantra at his side. 'I can tell him the score on Pab' Marv continued above the noise, 'if that's OK with you Mr K' he added in hushed tones.

'Yes, that's alright with me' Illya sighed, getting out of the car.

The interior of the shop looked a little different from the last time Illya had been here, though he couldn't quite remember when that had been. The walls had been repainted a rather startling white and were adorned with large photographs of current singers and film stars, so Marv told him.

'Hey, that's Sinatra, that's Dino, looking cool; whoa, that's James Dean and then, oh yeah, that Andy Williams guy; has the show my ma likes with all that smoochy stuff he does, dancing with a girl out of the audience at the end.' To demonstrate, he started to twirl Valentin round the shop with him, to the evident amusement of several customers just leaving.

'Yeah, he looks like a little girl, that one you're dancing with, Marv'. Illya frowned as the other barber spoke.

'Hey Frank Junior, this is Mr Kuryakin from UNCLE. His pal came in earlier, remember? Mr Solo. Mr K, this is my eldest, Frank Junior, back from 'Nam via the VA place down in Norfolk of course.'

Before Illya could speak, Marv had cut in with a hundred questions for Frank Jr concerning Vietnam. He was obviously Frank's son, a virtual clone only thinner, with a tired look on his face that Illya recognised in a lot of servicemen he had met returning from war.

'Kuryakin' Frank Jr said, after Marv had been distracted by the boys playing with hair on the floor. 'Is that a Commie name?'

No Frank, it's an American name. Mr Kuryakin is an American, just like we are, right?' Frank Jr looked at his father and then smiled.

'Right' he said.

'OK' Frank Sr said cheerfully, flapping a large white cape round like a bullfighter about to take on his first conquest. 'What'll it be, Mr K, your usual half inch, don't take any more off the bangs?' Illya sat down on the chair as Frank swirled the cape round him, looking at the boys through the mirror. They had now clambered onto two chairs next to Marv, their eyes fixed on their father.

'Want me to do the little guy?' Frank Jr asked kindly, coming over and swinging Valya onto his lap. Illya noticed he was limping quite badly, his face showing the obvious pain his leg was causing him.

'He got shot up quite bad at Chu Lai' Frank whispered, beginning to comb Illya's hair. 'A lot didn't come back from there, so Rita and I, we're grateful he got out. They say he'll improve, but that leg ain't ever gonna be good.' Illya looked at Frank in the mirror.

'Pablo has woken up' he said quietly. 'So we both have something to be thankful for.'

He saw Valya slide off Frank Jr's lap and come towards him, taking a wary look at Frank Sr as he did.

'What is it?' Illya said softly, leaning down towards him.

'Like papa' he said, fixing Illya with a winsome look.

'I get it now' Frank Sr said, coming round to the mirror. 'You have long hair, he has long hair . . . 'like papa, so he says.' Illya lifted him up onto his lap.

'Listen, Valya. Papa is going to have a haircut and so is Valya, alright? You stand here and watch, and then let Uncle Frank Jr here give you a haircut, just like papa, right?'

'Like papa' Valya repeated, beginning to smile.

'_Unca Frank Juner'_ Misha suddenly began to chant, eliciting a broad grin from Frank Jr.

'Make sure it's a genuine _all-American_ haircut, Frank Junior' Frank Sr said, smiling broadly, whipping out the scissors from his overall. 'Now, Mr K, what'll it be?' Illya looked up at the photographs, the stars seeming to approve both of themselves, and what was happening down beneath them.

'Um, like that one, only I'd like to keep at least a little of my fringe, if you can manage it' Illya said, smiling weakly. Frank spun the scissors in his hand, inducing a 'whoa!' from Marv, before setting to with enthusiasm.

xxxxxxxx

Napoleon ran along the corridor and after blowing a kiss to the nurse on duty, swung into Pablo's room.

'Well, hi there fella, welcome back to the land of the living' he said, swinging a chair round and sitting down next to the bed. Pablo himself was sitting up, several pillows helping to keep him propped up, whilst a nurse gave him a drink.

'Don't tire him out; he's only just sat up' the nurse chided, her eyes seeming to say something entirely different.

'I'll try not to, er . . Delphine' Napoleon answered, plastering on his usual charming smile, before turning back to Pablo.

'Uncle Napoleon' Pablo began rather hoarsely, taking another sip from the glass Napoleon proffered, 'was Papa here?'. Napoleon nodded, as the boy lay back on his pillows, thinking. 'He was here, and . . so was Marv!' he said grinning.

'Right again' Napoleon said, offering the water again. Pablo sat silently for a few minutes, his eyes partially closed.

'Mama came a lot' he said, 'and Uncle Alex.' Napoleon watched him, wondering when the more awkward questions might begin.

'Pablo, would you be up to moving out of here soon?' he asked, checking that the nurse had gone out of the room. 'Your grandmother and Grandpa Peter want to take you on holiday.' Pablo's initial joy on hearing that his grandparents had returned became suddenly tinged with anxiety.

'Where is mama? 'Is she coming with us?'

Napoleon bit his lip and stared at the boy's anxious face. Before he could answer, Pablo had leaned forward, grasping his hand.

'Uncle Napoleon, that night, the one when . . . I went upstairs to put the music away and that man was there.' A look of terrible fear clouded his face as if a huge storm had suddenly blotted out the sun and everything had turned cold and dark.

'It was him, the man we saw at the shoe shop, Uncle Napoleon. Only I know who he was now.' He grasped Napoleon's hand harder, willing himself to speak. 'I was confused, because when I had seen him before, he wasn't like that; he was a . .'

'Woman' Napoleon said, seeing the acknowledgement in the boy's stricken face and scared eyes.

'She was the woman who took me away from my first papa and mama, wasn't she, Uncle Napoleon?' Napoleon sighed and nodded, getting off the chair and enclosing the boy in an embrace he prayed would help them both.

After a while, he loosed his hold and Pablo sank back gently onto his pillows.

'Mama heard me cry and ran up the steps, even though it was hard for her' Pablo continued. That man grabbed her and . . and he kissed her, and then, Uncle Napoleon, I saw it, he pushed her. He didn't push her really hard, but it was enough to make her fall, Uncle Napoleon. And then . . I thought he was going to . .'

'It's okay, Pablo. I know the rest' Napoleon said quietly. Pablo looked up at him.

'I'm ready to go, Uncle, but please tell me, where is Mama?' Napoleon got up and checked that no-one was likely to disturb them, before slowly returning and holding Pablo's hand again.

xxxxxxxx

When he returned from Medical, Connie and his wife were bending over Illya's desk, checking what looked like a map with the Russian, who was hidden behind them. They straightened as he came in and turned round.

'Ah Napoleon, we were wondering where you were. Can you make sure the door is locked please?' Illya said, ignoring Napoleon's expression.

'Can't you do it, or is your head now feeling too light for sudden movement?' he replied, smirking over Illya's head at the girls, who had now come round to the other side of the desk behind him.

'We think he looks wonderful' Jo said, stroking Illya's hair while he sat glumly between them with his head in his hands.

'Yes, well you are joined in your opinion by my mother, my step-father, Misha, Marv, my twin sons and probably the cat' he said, looking up at her. 'I can understand Misha liking it, because it is exactly like his hair, but the rest of you, well, I suppose you're just being kind.'

'Well, there you are then' Jo said, lightly tickling the back of his neck before coming back round the desk and dragging a chair towards it. 'Right, now that Goldilocks here has done the necessary' Jo continued, tapping Illya's head lightly with her pencil, we're ready to proceed with the final plan for tomorrow. Connie, your main task will be to make sure that our friends sitting in a white truck parked nearby pick up the chatter, via the Channel that Napoleon specified, right?

'Fine' Connie said, writing 'Channel L' down on her notepad.

'It's essential that apart from Mr Waverly, Rudi's gang and ourselves, no-one else knows the actual truth of what has happened' Napoleon said. We've just had too many mess-ups in this affair to risk Hoang finding out by any means what really has happened here. The only other person who will be in on things is Giselle Woodward. We'll need a Medic to make it all look convincing, and she's going to make sure that Pablo arrives safely at the rendezvous tomorrow as well.

'I'll go up and see him before I leave' Illya said.

'Fine, because the more people see you and admire your new hairstyle the better. Then tomorrow there should be a smooth transition between Misha and you without any hiccups, follicular or otherwise.'

The two women got up and went through to Connie's part of the office, but not before Jo had kissed Illya.

'I'll see you tomorrow' she said. 'Remember, you're both coming back, and you're bringing my sister, my nieces and your new daughter with you.'

'Napoleon' Illya said, as he pulled out a clean shirt from the wardrobe behind his desk, 'we know who I am supposed to be impersonating on Bermuda, but what exactly will your role be, bearing in mind that you will also have to be in somewhat heavy disguise to evade Mr Hoang's eagle eyes?'

'Interesting you should ask that, bearing in mind what miracle has been performed on your head today' Napoleon replied, gathering up the maps and locking them in his desk. Illya finished changing his shirt, running his fingers round the collar for the last time to check for any hairs that had dared to remain.

'I'm sorry Napoleon, I don't get what possible connection my haircut . . .' He put on his holster and jacket before freezing. 'Please don't tell me that what I've just thought might possibly be true.'

'Yep, partner. Just wait till you see my disguise'.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

'Alexander? It's been a while, old friend.'

'A long while, Pavel. We're both getting a little long in the tooth for this game, I think.' Waverly heard the deep rumbling laugh of the Russian on the other end of the telephone.

'Very true, my friend. But, for the moment, we must continue with the game that we find ourselves playing, _n'est-ce pas_?' There was a slight pause, Waverly waiting calmly until the other man spoke first.

'So, Alexander, it appears that we have a slight problem with Comrade Arshavin for which we will have to find a solution which is mutually acceptable to both of us.'

'I think the problem with Arshavin is yours, Pavel, but we are concerned that Lieutenant Colonel Arshavina may have been coerced by him into a plot to kidnap Mr Kuryakin's daughters, in the mistaken belief that your organisation had ordered it.' There were a few moments silence, before Pavel Ulyanov spoke again.

'I thought we had made it clear that neither Illya Nikovetch or his family would be, what shall I say, _encouraged_ by any means to return to his homeland, particularly since his more than helpful contribution to us two years ago.'

'I appreciate that' Waverly replied. 'Mr Kuryakin thinks Arshavin may have persuaded her to agree to it by a threat.'

'Let me guess. A threat to Illya Nikovetch? Ah yes, she would take that very seriously. He is, let us say, special to her.' Waverly sighed. He might have known that some personal issue would creep into this at some point.

'Alexander. It appears that Sergei Gregorovitch's stupidity and Anya's vulnerability have caused a difficult situation for us all. Might I suggest a possible solution?'

xxxxxxx

Misha could hear Illya moving round below him when he woke up, despite the fact that dawn had barely shown itself in the New York sky outside the window. He lay back on his pillow and let his mind drift back, remembering the habits of the man he now claimed as his brother when they were but fellow officers crammed together in a tiny cabin on a ship in a place which felt like a distant planet from the one they inhabited now.

'I'm sorry if I disturbed you.' Misha started slightly and opened his eyes to see his mirror image now knelt by his bed offering him a cup of tea.

'You didn't. I was thinking about the _Moskva_.' Illya shrugged and sat down on the bed, watching him drink.

'Mm. We were but children then. If I remember rightly, you assured me that you were going to win the Nobel Prize for Physics.'

'And you were absolutely certain that women would have no place in your life, let alone children.' Illya smiled.

'Well I suppose that proves that we share at least a lamentable ability to see into the future then' he said, glancing round the room.

Misha was sleeping in the bed usually reserved for Marv, sadly not used for the past few weeks. They had agreed that he should stay with Illya 'to ensure a smooth start to the plan' as he had put it. They had left Marina and Peter early to give them a chance to rest before the journey they had happily agreed to on the next day. If Misha hoped for a prolonged chat he was destined for disappointment as Illya, after making them both a cup of tea and setting the alarms, retired to his bedroom and shut the door firmly. But Misha wasn't disappointed; he knew his brother.

'I see you've selected what we're wearing' Illya said, getting up from the bed.

'Well I'm sure you had other, more important things to think about Illyusha, so take this as my contribution' Misha said wryly. 'I found two suits that are more or less the same, plus the usual Illya Kuryakin white shirt black tie combo, only don't rely on ever seeing my suit again after today, OK?

'Wastrel' Illya replied, going downstairs towards the bathroom. Misha could hear sounds announcing the fact that the boys had woken up. Putting down his cup, he got up and ran lightly down the stairs.

Both boys were on Mishka's bed, as Misha called him, bouncing madly up and down, completely naked.

'Aren't they dreadful?' their father muttered, from the floor where he was collecting up a pile of assorted clothes and nappies that had been ripped off by the twins. 'They are such exhibitionists. They must have inherited it from someone, but I'm not sure who.'

'I can't imagine either' Misha said with an arch smile, before with a sort of deep bird like noise, he ran towards the boys and scooped them up, to their obvious delight.

'_Unca Mish, Unca Mish' _Valya squealed, as they both gyrated round in Misha's arms.

'I'll go and run the bath' Illya muttered; 'perhaps warm water will calm them.'

'Strap them in otherwise they'll demonstrate what excellent escape artists they are' Illya said, as he slid Valya into his seat at the table. They had taken it in turns to bath and dress the children, while the other showered, Misha taking the opportunity to watch Illya as he sat in the bath with the two boys, allowing them to climb all over him, splashing him as he patiently attempted to sponge them down, Valya even banging his father's head with a rubber duck until it was taken from him and gently lobbed across the room.

'Illya?' Illya turned round from making the boys' breakfast, a rather incongruous looking frilly red apron tied round his waist. Misha smirked slightly before becoming serious.

'You do trust me with this, don't you?' Illya turned back to the toast.

'Completely. After all, you are my brother. And your driving is probably marginally better than Napoleon's, and I trust him as a brother. So, does that answer your question?'

'So you are saying you trust me as much as you trust Napoleon?' Illya sighed.

'Misha, don't ask me to define my relationship with Napoleon, because I can't. Eat your breakfast because we need to make sure we are ready before Josefina and Fabian arrive. Now, can you just do me a favour? Go to the kitchen door and bring in the post, making clear who you are to anyone watching, while I watch to see if anybody is watching you.'

'What? Oh, OK.' Illya glanced at the twins, now swigging from their cups, before melting away upstairs. Misha counted to ten and then went towards the door.

He could feel that the day was going to be very hot even at this early hour. Leaving the door wide open and shouting, 'leave Valya alone, Mishka' he walked up the steps towards the mail box fixed to the railings at the top, and opened the back with the key.

'Good morning, Mr Kuryakin.' A rather beautiful nun was walking past, her veil flapping slightly behind her as she moved along the pavement.

'Good morning, sister' Misha managed, before deciding he had done enough to establish his identity, and retreating back down the stairs.

'Meet anybody?' Illya said, sliding into his seat opposite the twins.

'As a matter of fact, I did meet a rather lovely nun' Misha replied, sipping his coffee.

'Uh-huh. That was probably Sister Luc, beloved of Pascale and Pablo.' Misha noticed a slight shadow move over Illya's face, before he contrived to brush it away.

'Did you see anybody?' Misha asked. Illya regained his composure, as the kitchen door bell rang.

'Oh yes. There is a car parked a little way up the street on the other side of the road where the occupants are turning round and looking into the mirror a little too often for my liking' he replied. 'They've been there since I ran past them at five-thirty.'

Illya got up and went to the door, the boys starting to shout and wriggle as they saw Fabian come in.

'You uncle Illya' Fabian said, giving Illya a look which was reminiscent of his partner in amused mode.

'Correct' Illya replied, smiling. 'Uncle Misha is not so good looking.' He kissed Jo before putting on his jacket and approaching the jam encrusted twins.

'Be good' he whispered to them, kissing their heads, 'and papa will see you very soon.'

xxxxxxx

'Hey, they're coming out'. The thinner of the two men sat in the sedan fired the car's ignition as the other man checked the mirror. They had been in their assigned place since dawn was breaking, had watched Kuryakin come out of his house and run down the street, and then watched him run back again forty five minutes later. Now they watched again as he gently shepherded the three little boys into the back seat of the red Ford he had brought round from the garage at the back of his house.

'Five to control, come in.' They had been assigned numbers since working for Clark Hoang, and he had assured them that when he assumed control of THRUSH, this system would be introduced, and they would be in charge of it.

'Names have no relevance in your role' he had said at the end of their training period, and they had gladly relinquished them.

'Control to five, over.'

'Subjects leaving house, beginning to follow; five out.'

They had been given their orders some days before.

'Kuryakin will know you are there very soon' Hoang had said, holding up his hand to silence their protests. 'This is not a reflection on you; he is very, let us say, 'aware' and it would be extremely difficult to fool him for long. Your task is to put pressure on him to make an error of judgement which will cost the lives of everyone in that car. Do you understand?'

'OK boys?' Misha revved the engine slightly, feeling its power before gently pulling away from the kerb and heading towards the junction at the end of the road. Grove Street's tree-lined shadiness did not reflect his mood, as sweat broke out on his forehead immediately. He drove past the car he knew would be following him without looking as Illya had instructed, gathering speed a little as he crossed Bedford St and headed for Bleecker.

'_Papa_' he heard Mishka say as he looked in the mirror and saw that the twins had already started bumping up and down in their seats, Fabian sitting rather nonchalantly between them.

'It's not papa it's uncle Misha' he said tiredly, thereby invoking a chain of '_papa, Misha, papa, Misha'_s from the twins.

'I told them you were uncle Misha but they don't listen' Fabian said, glancing in a rather horrified way both sides of him. 'Look, he don't have twirly hair like uncle Illyoosh and Valya' he said, giving them a look which reminded Misha of Jo.

'_Twirly, twirly' _the twins replied, bumping in unison to the words.

Misha swore silently to himself and focused back on the road. He made a fairly sharp right turn into Bleecker, the traffic now picking up as he headed for 6th Avenue. He could hear Illya's voice in his head now, telling him it was a straight run as far as the West thirties. In his mirror he could see the dark grey sedan a couple of cars down, the occupants with the obligatory sunglasses on, looking as though they were of Chinese heritage.

The junction with 6th was a sharp one, the boys sliding a bit and squealing with delight as he swung the car round and headed into the middle lane of traffic. A frisson of fear surged through him suddenly; he had driven in London and felt confident about handling traffic, but this was different. He felt as if he was on a race track here, the yellow cabs engaged on a game to make his life as difficult as possible. He took a deep breath, Illya again speaking to him. 'Be confident; drive as if you know where you're going and they'll get out of the way.'

The two men behind were still only a couple of cars back, both impassive in their inexorable task. Misha began to count the streets, edging over to the right as the low rise buildings began to give way to taller, more impersonal blocks. He glanced at the mirror, horrified to see that the twins had now turned round, kneeling up and waving at people out of the back window.

'Uncle Mish, the boys are being naughty; uncle Illyoosh doesn't let them do that' Fabian piped up, his curly head bobbing up and down as he talked.

'Boys, sit down now!' Misha shouted, rather louder than he meant. The twins slid down turning towards him in shocked silence.

'Uncle Mish will tell uncle Illyoosh and he will talk to you with his scary voice' Fabian confided to the now listening twins, his eyes indicating how scary.

This seemed to induce calm for the time being, giving Misha the chance to concentrate on making distance between himself and the following car. For a couple of blocks the traffic seemed to thin out a bit, giving him the chance to suddenly gun the car and get in front of a bus. From the blares of cabs behind, he could tell that the chasing car had had less luck. The children regained their positions on the back seat, the twins obviously approving of his driving skills and recovering a bit from the shock of Fabian's warning.

As they approached 34th, Misha remembered the awkward looking junction with Broadway and also, with horror, that he had not made sure the boys had gone to the toilet before they left. He glanced at them quickly in the mirror, praying that nothing would happen at least for another few blocks. They had made it through the Broadway junction when he noticed that the twins had begun to writhe in their seats.

'Uncle Mish, the boys need to . . .' Fabian started up, as if he was ten years older than his cousins, not less than two, followed immediately by choruses of '_pee pee' _from the cousins.

'Can you hold it boys, just for a minute?' Misha shouted above the noise of the traffic. A pathetic '_yeees_' issued from the back. Misha sighed and swerved into the right hand lane, a truck behind grinding gears and hooting at him as he shot away.

Macy's rushed past in a blur on the left as Misha counted down the remaining blocks, using the build-up of traffic round Herald Square to cut across in front of a few cabs and position himself for the turn into West 36th street. He accelerated the last block, glancing at the now desperate looking twins before screeching round the corner into West 36th and gaining speed down the road. As he braked to avoid going into the back of a cab, he noticed a huge truck parked at the side of the road, the tailgate down and an immense number of cardboard boxes piled into the road beside it. Two men, who he fancied he vaguely recognised, were loading some of the boxes onto wheeled carriers, whilst another vast number of boxes were already loaded onto a kind of wheeled tray behind them. As he approached they immediately left what they were doing, waiting for him to pass before they appeared to leap into the road, two more men beginning to drag the immense tower of boxes across.

'Gee, big boxes, uncle Mish!' Fabian exclaimed, the twins now exclusively concentrating on their own torment so much, that they declined to comment.

Misha cannoned across 5th, praying that the men in the dark glasses would not get through the boxes too quickly. Hitting Lexington he turned right, and then almost immediately left into East 36th. He could see the garage entry on his left, the sign 'Vehicle Entrance – Private' clearly visible, the apartment block towering above. Risking another quick look in his mirror, he yanked the wheel round and roared in through the entryway and down a ramp into the coolness of the underground park. He was aware of a red blur and a roar of a car's engine as he pulled the car away from the ramp, and then only silence as he finally, and gratefully turned the ignition key off.

'Uncle Mish, that was a great drive, it sure was, but the boys . . .' Misha turned round. Fabian had an anguished look on his face, the twins a combination of relief and fear. Little Misha sniffed slightly and then began to cry.

'It's alright boys, your papa will no doubt speak to _me_ with the scary voice' he said, wanting to laugh at the tragic threesome in the back seat.

Illya accelerated up the ramp and out into East 35th, coming up behind a bus moving less fast towards Park Avenue. By the time he reached the junction he could just see the two men following in the sedan turning into E35th. Napoleon's insurance policy of the boxes seemed to have paid off, although he felt a secret sense of pride in Misha's achievement. He drove up Park, the heat making the trees look limp and dry in the central reservation as he passed. He glanced in the mirror, the three dummies in the back making him smile as he kept a watchful eye on the sedan now a few cars behind him. Rudi had taken charge of his part of the plan personally, and the dummies did look vaguely like the three children. He was glad the resemblance was only passing though; a more realistic likeness would have added to the disgust he already felt at the person behind this grotesque plot.

He sped on, turning right into East 40th and then accelerating across Lexington. As he turned into 3rd, a lucky combination of some cabs and a very slow moving truck gave him the opportunity to lose speed and to allow them to catch him. He began to drive slightly more erratically, using the horn in a way he would never normally to signify his frustration and stress to anyone who might care to know about it. By the time East 44th approached, they were behind him, the car feeling oppressively close. He fingered his watch with his other hand, hoping that the explosives he had laid would perform to his specifications.

Watching the car behind carefully, he accelerated up the junction a little, then yanked the car round the corner, causing a satisfying screech of its tyres as it righted itself on the road. The opening was almost immediately on the right, just a wide gap between two buildings leading to equally wide alley behind the row of shops and offices which lined this part of the street. He accelerated down the gap and swung the car round the corner, almost immediately driving it into a pile of pallets precariously arranged against a wall. As the car hit the pallets he opened the door and rolled out and away, pressing the winder mechanism of his watch as he staggered up from the ground.

The explosion was enough to engulf the car with flames, catching the pallets in a huge funnel of fire roaring upwards between the two walls of the alley. Illya heard the other car approach and rolled drunkenly towards it, his face beginning to screw up in the beginnings of a scream.

'Oh God help me, I've killed them!' he screeched at the two men before running down the alley.

'Get after him, and stop him reaching their headquarters' the man known as 'Five' said, before slowly getting back inside the car and reaching for the communication device on the dashboard.

'Five to Control, over. All occupants of car disposed of, except Kuryakin, who Seven is attempting to take down before he reaches UNCLE.'

'Excellent work, Five. Nothing of interest on the channels we've been monitoring, although we're having difficulty breaking through their security.'

'Well, try harder. If Kuryakin reaches home, we need to know what happens. I can't imagine he'll have a very happy reception party, particularly from his partner. Am moving away now as I do believe our friends from UNCLE have arrived. Five out.'

Illya crossed the road, immediately aware that one of the men in the car following him was now in pursuit. A hissing sound passing near his ear signalled some kind of bullet which embedded itself harmlessly into a wall. A couple of passers-by on the other side of the road looked mildly nervous at the two men, but obviously were not aware that the short man with the black stick was in fact carrying a deadly weapon. Illya increased his pace to sprint mode, weaving in and out of a few more pedestrians and praying that his attacker would miss them too. He could see Del Floria's ahead, the door slightly open at the bottom of the stairs as he hurtled down and through it.

Without speaking, he threw himself into the changing cubicle and emerged seconds later to grab his badge from the startled receptionist, before lurching into the corridor. He could see Napoleon at the end, his communicator in his hand. As he approached, slightly staggering from the effects of the blast and the run, he saw him put it away and begin to withdraw something else from his jacket.

'You stupid arsehole' he said slowly as Illya came to a halt in front of him.

'I . . it was an accident' he started, aware that others had now come out of doors behind him.

'You killed them, you murdering bastard' Napoleon continued, still deadly calm, 'just as if you'd put a bullet to their heads, like I'm going to put a bullet to your head.' There was a stifled scream from behind before Napoleon, without further warning, drew his gun and fired.

There was an immediate response as the alarm sounded. Agents began to run down the corridor, as a couple of women bent over the now prostrate form of the Russian agent. They were pushed out of the way by Dr Woodward calmly pulling back Illya's jacket and feeling his neck. A blossoming wound on his chest began to soak his shirt, the deep red colour a vivid and macabre contrast to the pristine whiteness of the garment.

'Time of death 09:15 hours' she said monotonously. 'Take him to the mortuary, I'll be down immediately.'

'What the . . . . '. Napoleon felt a powerful hand on his shoulder. Darryl Moore loomed over him, his face looking as if someone had scalded it.

'You killed him you slimy bastard' he bawled, 'you killed the best agent we ever had!' He shoved Napoleon's shoulder and with a wide swing, punched him.

As he was roughly pulled up from the floor he began to mutter over and over again, 'he killed my son, my only son'.

He was pulled upright, feeling his jaw as he was suddenly aware of someone standing in front of him. Alexander Waverly stood looking at him, his expression unreadable.

'Take him to the interrogation unit and make preparations for his removal to our penal facility. I don't care to have him in this building' he added bitterly, turning and walking away down the corridor. Napoleon stood there for a few moments before he felt the rigidity of handcuffs lock his arms together, and he was dragged towards the open doors of a waiting elevator.


	7. Chapter 7

PART SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The telephone rang as Edvard Zoltan sipped his iced tea, glad of the interruption it caused to the rather unpleasant conversation unfolding in the room.

'Hoang.' He watched as the man facing him leaned forward in his seat, a look of intense concentration on his unlined features, his eyelids closing occasionally as if recording the information being relayed to him through the instrument he held.

'Are you sure?' He nodded imperceptibly, before putting down the phone and taking up his glass, a look of malign satisfaction flooding his features.

'Good news?' Zoltan ventured.

'Oh the best news, Edvard.' He sniffed slightly, a lascivious sneer elongating his already elliptical eyes into mere slits in the shade of the afternoon. Zoltan watched as Hoang sipped his drink for a few moments before putting it down on the low antique table between them.

'It appears that my organisation have achieved what THRUSH with all its so-called resources of men and money have signally failed to do for the last ten years or so' he said, suddenly fixing Zoltan with a penetrating gaze.

'And that is . . .' Zoltan replied, feeling curiously uncomfortable in the other man's moment of triumph. Hoang got up and walked over to the large French windows, folded back to allow them a perfect view of the perfect green lawn rolling down a hill towards the swimming pool, now sadly bereft of the woman he had watched on the evening of his arrival. Beyond that, a curving path lined with oleanders and hibiscus led to a private beach, again a perfect line of pink champagne sand gently shelving into a murmuring turquoise sea.

Hoang picked up a pair of binoculars lying on a console table by the windows and gazed towards the beach. Somehow Zoltan knew that he was expected to join him, and to share whatever it was he was looking at. He put down his glass with a sigh and walked over to the opening, taking the binoculars that Hoang handed him.

He wasn't surprised to see Hoang's fiancée again, this time standing with her back to them staring out to sea. She was wearing a large straw floppy hat, her swollen body covered by a long dress he'd glimpsed other women on these islands wearing, this one intricately patterned in blues and greens with a delicate fish pattern. And like before, she was alone.

'Don't worry, you will be introduced to Summer on Thursday evening at the reception' Hoang said, as if reading his thoughts. 'She needs time to adjust to her new life.' Zoltan turned, knowing that in some way the answer to both his question and to the mystery of the girl would be connected in some way. He could see Hoang waiting, enjoying his moment, waiting for him to ask the questions.

'So, your fiancée and this 'great news' you have to tell me, they are connected?' he said finally, wishing with all his might that this might be over and he could escape from the room and from this man, at least for a while.

'How intuitive of you, Edvard' Hoang murmured, taking the binoculars from Zoltan and putting them back on the table, before returning to his seat and sitting back down. Zoltan had no choice but to follow him, beginning to fume inwardly at this game Hoang appeared to be playing with him.

'Who would you say, Edvard, is the greatest threat to the success of our venture here' he began, signalling an invisible servant to refresh their glasses.

'Person or organisation?' Zoltan replied slightly testily. Before Hoang could reply he continued, 'UNCLE of course.'

'Exactly. And person or persons within that organisation?'

'I think you know my answer, Clark' Zoltan replied rather sharply, putting down his glass with a clank on the table. Hoang smiled, Zoltan's mood seeming to encourage him in the obfuscation he was so enjoying at the other man's expense.

'Solo and Kuryakin of course. We are all well aware of your past dealings with these men, and with Kuryakin in particular.'

'Exactly. So if I told you that today, after accidentally killing his own sons and Solo's only child, Kuryakin himself was murdered by his partner, who now languishes in the UNCLE top security penal institution in upstate New York, and that my fiancée, the woman now known as Summer Day, is in fact Therese Kuryakin, what odds would you say our venture has now in succeeding?

xxxxxxxx

'Illya. Illya. Wake up! Come on, sleepy time over, comrade!' Napoleon let go of Illya Kuryakin's chin and walked to the window.

'He's been dead to the world all morning; don't you think he should be at least semi-comatose by now?' Giselle Woodward fastened her stethoscope into her ears and slowly pressed the other end to Illya's chest, nodding slowly as she did.

'You were very close and he got a big dose, enough to bring down the average buffalo' she said huskily, giving Illya's face a sly stroke. 'He'll wake up when he's good and ready; I don't want to give him a stimulant, when he's already had all this, and a bang on the head as well.' She straightened, Napoleon admiring her natural, athletic elegance as she stood there, staring at him.

'Napoleon, he will have a fit when he sees you, man' she said, her Trinidadian accent adding to her charm. Napoleon smiled and glanced at himself in the mirror. The 'team' Rudi had established in the safe house had set to work as soon as he and Illya had arrived, Giselle staying with the unconscious Russian whilst Rudi and his gang worked on Napoleon. He wondered which part of him Kuryakin would find most objectionable; his now blond hair, which Rudi had attempted to match to an almost exact shade of the Russian's natural locks, or the style; perhaps the flat top was going a bit far, but the addition of Alan Page's designer glasses seemed to lend an air of authenticity to it all. He cringed slightly at the use of the stuff Rudi called 'false flab', which the German had sculpted to slightly alter the shape of his face.

'It's fab flab, _liebling' _he had said in that arch way he talked. 'It's so like real skin you can even go in the shower and it won't come off.'

'But presumably it will come off eventually?' Napoleon enquired worriedly, staring at someone even he was beginning not to recognise in the mirror.

'_Naturlich_' he replied, laughing. 'You just need some of Rudi's special cleanser.' He had to admit though, that it was a very good disguise, and one that at least, though different, was not as hideous as some he had donned in the past.

Napoleon looked at Illya's prostrate form on the sofabed, a t-shirt replacing the bloody shirt that had so effectively confirmed his partner's demise. He had winced when Giselle had removed it, a large, painful looking bruise showing the point where the explosive dart had entered his body, thus breaking the pack of fake blood taped to his chest.

'I have an idea' he said, going into the kitchen. Vaz Fernandes, Fernando's partner, stood there, making coffee.

'Vaz, are you up to defending this lot while I'm away' he said, glancing at Fernandes' left arm, encased in a solid cast since he and Fernando had been ambushed in a warehouse in Chicago by some THRUSH operatives. As usual, McCaffery came out of it virtually unscathed, whilst Fernandes' arm was broken cleanly as they fought their way out of the building. He grinned, turning round with a tray full of cups balanced on the cast.

'By all means, old man, but might I enquire where you're popping off to, seeing that you're supposed to be banged up in our new en-suite penal colony?'

'I thought I might kill two birds with one stone as it were by trying out my new identity and luring Illya there back into the real world.' Fernandes shrugged, his mobile face showing his incomprehension. 'Whatever you say, old chap' he muttered, precariously balancing the tray as he came out.

Napoleon crossed the street, a sheet of paper in his hand with the name of the restaurant emblazoned on the top. He looked back at the safe house, an apartment on the top floor of an Italianate brownstone building in East Village, whose other floors were occupied by a small German bank; a place Kuryakin had been instrumental in finding and setting up. He could remember the wry smile his partner had given him when he had remarked that it was conveniently near his very favourite restaurant.

'That had no bearing on my choice' Illya had said, straight faced, as they inspected the rooms and Napoleon had gazed out at the familiar green awning of the restaurant opposite.

'Yeah, of course not' Napoleon had replied.

'Er, well, I think we'll have a plate of _varenyky_, please'. Napoleon simpered a little as the man facing him, Dmitri Pavlychenko, an enormous Ukrainian who seemed to be eternally engaged in an argument with Illya about the state of the Ukraine, stared at him intently.

'Filling?'

'Cheese and potato, fried onions _of course_, side of Smetana.' Napoleon realised as he was speaking, that he had assumed Alan Page's fake Bostonian accent together with his glasses. Pavlychenko continued to stare, though Solo was quite sure that this was not because he recognised him.

'Big or small?' Napoleon pursed his lips slightly and gave Pavlychenko a coy look, which induced a kind of horrified blush in the Ukrainian.

'Plate. I mean big or small plate, _sir_.'

'Oh big. My friend, he's a very big eater, if you take my meaning.'

'Right. Now, if you can provide a plate, we'll see if part two of my experiment works as well as part one did.' Napoleon took the proffered plate from Vaz and slid a few of the not so little dumplings onto it, smothering the top with the fried onions and sour cream. He glanced round, certain that Kuryakin's nose had twitched, before advancing across the room with the plate.

'Ah, it's a shame you won't wake up comrade; we were all about to start in on the _varenyky_. By the way, Dmitri sends his love.' There was a moment's silence, before, as if by magic, the Russian gave a shuddering sigh and opened his eyes. He lay there for a few seconds before, rather hoarsely to begin with, he whispered,

'Cheese and potato?'

'I don't believe that, I truly do not believe that.' Giselle knelt down and listened to his chest, her arm holding him down on the sofa until she had finished. As he turned his head, and Giselle got up, Napoleon knelt down at his side.

'Excuse me, I thought I heard Napoleon speaking.'

'You did.'

There was a loud snorting noise from the other side of the room as Illya struggled into a sitting position, still staring intently and suspiciously at the blond man now grinning widely at him.

'Napoleon?'

'The very same. Now, enough fried onions and sour cream?' Vaz, still trying not to laugh too much, brought over the drinks, temporarily distracting Illya from a full on glare at his partner.

'Here, have the tray and close your mouth, it's rude in polite company.' Illya snapped shut his gaping mouth, before, with a final incredulous gaze at his partner, he began to eat. Napoleon sipped his root beer, enjoying watching his partner concentrate on the food in front of him. It would be just a matter of time before the comments began, he thought.

Rudi came into the room as Illya was just clearing the last of the _varenyky_.

'Sleeping beauty has awoken from his couch' he said dramatically, putting down an armful of clothes on the side of the sofa.

'And found that Prince Charming has turned into a blond frog' Illya muttered, shakily handing the tray to Giselle and then collapsing back onto the sofa with a bottle of water.

'You like my work then, darling' Rudi exclaimed, plonking himself next to Illya and punching him lightly on the shoulder. 'By the way, Lyusha, I _love_ your hair.'

'We all do' Napoleon said, all of them fixing Illya with wide, innocent smiles. Illya put down his drink and lay flat, kicking Rudi off the couch in the process.

'Wake me up when you've all regained your sanity' he murmured.

xxxxxxx

'Wake up, we need to talk.' Illya opened his eyes, starting a little again at his partner's appearance.

'What time is it?

'Seven. Take it easy, just sit up slowly, okay?' Illya frowned, blinking several times before sitting up and staring thin lipped, at Napoleon.

'Did I dream it, or did I eat something?'

'You ate something. Now, you need to take a shower and then we'll talk. I have to be leaving soon and we have things to discuss before I do. The bathroom's through there.' Napoleon threw a towel in his partner's direction and then walked towards the kitchen, where he had prepared some food for them both. Illya stood, and then followed Solo into the room.

'Napoleon, I have to ask, . .'

'The boys are fine. Misha contacted me when you were out for the count again this afternoon. Vaz is joining Fernando there tomorrow, so they should have adequate protection until we return, okay?' He turned away, arranging two interesting looking salads on plates, aware that Illya still remained at the door.

'We have someone in Bermuda' he began, without waiting for the Russian. 'He'll try to get to Tess before she finds out by other means' he said.

'And the girls?'

'That may be more difficult. We have to trust that Anya will protect them.' Illya nodded, Napoleon aware that he was biting his lip unconsciously.

'You know what your trouble is?' he said, shaking the oil and vinegar in a little jar he'd found in the cupboard. Illya stared at him, a gentle, innocent look Napoleon recognised and loved in his friend.

'No, what is it?'

'You're too intense. When I first worked with you, remember, I thought it wouldn't work; you were so dedicated, so serious, so_ intense_. There was never any levity with you, Illya, no . . .'

'Humanity?' Illya smiled a little wanly. 'And then your superficial ways rubbed off on me.' Napoleon smiled.

'Mm. They may have but, your personal life continued to be as intense as your professional one. Remember, you looked out of your bedroom window . .'

'Lounge window. I looked out of my lounge window and fell in love.'

'Exactly. If I remember, your first date was . .'

'Um, I don't think we ever had one, did we?' He frowned slightly, the same innocent look returning to his face. 'Well I suppose that the first time we managed to be alone together was on the aeroplane coming back from Kiev where I asked her to marry me.'

'My point exactly.' Illya leaned against the door slightly, his eyes hooded in the shadows of the evening.

'So what am I to do, Napoleon, love her less than I do?'

'Of course not. I just wanted you to know that . . .'

'You understand? I never doubted it. Without you, Napoleon, I'd still be the rather miserable and lonely character that turned up in your office all those years ago.' Napoleon turned, the two plates filled with a rather beautiful and delicate salad of leaves and mozzarella.

'Well, while you're showering that rather sweaty body of yours, just think about one thing' he said, pushing past Illya towards the table.

'Oh, and what is that?'

'How much you gave me in return, _mon ami_.'

xxxxxxxxx

The map was reasonably detailed, the name, 'Janus Resort and Spa' emblazoned in a banner at the top. It was clear that there were three main buildings, with an assortment of much smaller ones clustered together at various points round the shoreline.

'The whole place is private, including the beaches' Napoleon said, sipping his coffee. 'We have some aerial shots, which show the house clearly. The other two are the spa and treatment area, and the reception and offices, including, I understand, a board room which can seat at least forty.

'Enough for a fairly major meeting then' Illya said, cocking his head to one side as he looked at an aerial view of the house.

'When we trawled it last time, it appeared to be as the name suggests' Napoleon continued, 'Recreation, relaxation and a touch of plastic surgery for the ageing rich. However, our man on the spot has reported sightings of a number of our more interesting feathered friends taking a less than well-earned rest there.' Illya looked askance at his partner, before pulling out his glasses and staring closely at the map.

'What feathered friends?' he said suddenly, putting it down.

'Oh your favourite medic, Dr Agnes DaBree for one, last seen falling down the shaft of an elevator, if I remember rightly.' Illya sighed.

'So if they're there for treatment, it might be reasonable to suppose our friendly THRUSH plastic surgeon, Dr Erik Funk, might be in attendance.' Napoleon nodded, raising his eyebrows.

'I think Miss Bolt availed herself of Funk's services at the same time as she was channelling her ill-gotten gains from the Blau family through the banking system there. Somehow, they must have made the place squeaky clean for what they knew would be the inevitable UNCLE investigation, hoping that we might lose interest and look elsewhere' Napoleon said. 'Once our men left, the original purpose of the place was restored, i.e. an operation similar to the one we had the pleasure of experiencing in France.'

'But unlike France, there is something else there too' Illya said, his eyes narrowing behind the frames of his glasses. 'A plot within a plot, as it were.'

'Exactly. We could close down the R & R facilities, and the pharmaceutical production line would still be rolling.' He reached inside his jacket and brought out a pen, making a star by the hexagonal shaped building in the centre of the estate.

'I hazard a guess that this is Dr Funk's place of work, and somewhere within it or below it, the drug production facility. I would imagine it wouldn't need to be that large as they're not pretending it's a legitimate lab. You will need to find where that is, and then make sure the production line comes to a very sudden halt.'

Illya picked up the aerial picture of the house again.

'So while I'm busy blowing up things, where will you be, Napoleon?' he asked, frowning at the photograph. Napoleon fished inside his jacket, bringing out a badge, the logo of the Janus Spa embellished above the name. Illya took the badge, his frown deepening.

'Waylon Shand. _Style Consultant_?'

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

'Tasiya. _Conduis-toi! Mettez la robe maintenant!' _Anastasiya stood still for a moment, her face red with the effort of both screaming and fighting Pascale's patient efforts to force her into a dress, which now lay forlornly on the bedroom floor.

'_Non, je la deteste!_' she began again, her little legs beginning to thud loudly on the floor as she threw herself on the bed and pummelled it with her fists.

'Tasiya' Pascale began again, more gently, sitting on the side of the bed next to her sister, '_écoute_. We have to comply with the small things if we are to disobey the big ones.' After a few moments, Tasiya lifted up her head, her face streaked with tears.

'Don't want dress, want mama' she whispered, before falling into Pascale's arms and continuing to weep copiously. Pascale stroked the fiery hair until the little girl's sobs lessened, staring out of the room towards the immense blue sky and sea in front of them.

They had been confined to this cottage for the last two days, Anya taking them to the beach a couple of times, where they had played and paddled forlornly, Pascale remembering the more raucous and energetic times they had enjoyed in Mallorca with their parents and brothers. She had tried hard to hate Anya, to blame her for what had happened and not to believe that she might protect them from what was to come, but somehow she knew that it was wrong to feel as she did, and besides which, she was sure that her father would expect her to trust his countrywoman, despite any appearances to the contrary.

After putting the now exhausted and miserable Anastasiya to bed the night before, she had asked to speak to Anya.

'I know that you love and respect our father' she had begun rather seriously, 'and because of that, I think he would want us to trust you.' Anya had sat opposite her on the small wooden chairs outside the cottage, and for a while had stared out towards the rosy evening and the darkening sea.

'I do not deserve your father's love or your trust, Polina' she had said finally, 'but I accept them wholeheartedly, and I will do everything I can to save you and Tasenka from the evil which surrounds us here.' Then it had been Pascale's moment to cry, silently at first, to offload the crushing burden of loss and betrayal that she had felt ever since they had left her home and everything she held dear for this place.

After recovering with some glasses of lemonade, Anya had talked to her for a long time, explaining her plans and how the girls could assist her.

'Tomorrow afternoon, we are expected at the house to meet your new mother and father' she had continued, recognising Illya's expression in the drawn brows and concentration of the girl opposite. 'Do not be afraid of him, but try not to provoke him either. I will speak to him first, and then I will fetch you and Tasiya.'

'But what about his fiancée? Is that the lady who came to visit us?' Pascale asked worriedly.

'No. She is here, but I understand she is being retained to act as the baby's nurse when she is born' Anya replied.

'So, his fiancée, she is expecting a baby like mama?' Anya had nodded, a strange feeling passing through her as she thought about Pascale's comment.

'Yes, apparently so. Polina, I have to tell you that I think Monsieur Hoang has plans to send both you and Tasenka to school.' Pascale's face drained; she leaned forward, reaching out for Anya's hands.

'Oh Anya, please, please don't let him! Not to another of _those_ schools, please, I beg you!' she sobbed. Anya drew her into her arms, feeling again the hotness of her tears on her blouse.

'Do not fear, Apollinaria' Anya said, giving Pascale the long form of the Russian name she had been given when they had first met. 'I will not let him do this, I promise.'

Anya walked into the room wearing a deep turquoise cotton dress which brought out the golden lights of her hair, now swept into a tight chignon at the back of her head.

She knelt down and, retrieving the dress on the floor, held it out towards the now silent Anastasiya.

Remember, Tasiya, we are going to play a game. You are not to be frightened; Polina and I will be with you.' Tasiya, who usually reminded Anya of her father on every occasion suddenly smiled, a look purely of her mother upon her upturned face.

'When's papa comin?' she said, slowly forcing herself into the pink dress and pushing it down as if it was a foreign body that had fixed itself to her against her wishes. 'He said he wouldn't let the scary man come near, he did.'

'Papa will come, Tasiya' Pascale said. 'But remember, he's sent Aunty Anya to look after us until he gets here.'

xxxxxx

'Oh gee, Rog, look at the _sea_!' Illya Kuryakin, or rather Professor Roger Henderson as his British Passport stated, leaned over slightly from the book he was reading and gazed through the window of the aeroplane.

He had debated within himself whose disguise was the worst when Mitzi had finished that morning. He had worn wigs before, but this was probably the most lifelike and the most closely fitting ever. The thing felt like a second skin on his head, and the stuff she had welded to his face had only added to the extremely realistic and awful look of it all. He had stared at himself in the mirror afterwards, his appearance bringing back fond memories of several former lecturers at Cambridge.

'Hm, a very interesting phenomenon, the colour' he said, returning to the perusal of his book. Mitzi, in a very convincing blond wig leaned over, planting a red-lipsticked kiss on his cheek at the same time as yanking away the book from his hands.

'Oh my gosh Rog, how can you be reading . . ' she peered closely at the cover, 'Molecular Biology, Pathogenesis and Control' at a time like this, when we are just about to land in _paradise_!' Illya sighed, pulling the book back and rubbing his face. He could see that Mitzi was enjoying her role tremendously, as was the rest of the aeroplane, especially the man he had noticed sitting immediately behind them. He hadn't recognised him on his first visit to the aeroplane restroom, but a quick stare as he sat down again convinced him that he had been in the car which tailed him on the day he had ended up being 'murdered' by his partner. He shut the book, smoothing over the strands of wispy brown hair across his head and tried to look interested in the scenery below as Mitzi rooted in her purse for something.

'Roger, darling' she said in a more cajoling, but equally loud voice as before, 'you wanted the receipts from my little shopping trip yesterday?' She thrust a wad of paper into his hand before standing up and staring at the row behind her.

'What you looking at fella; a girl's gotta dress right when she visits paradise, right?' Illya pulled her down, standing and apologising to the now riveted row behind him, the passenger in the middle unblinking behind his dark glasses.

'Cindy, you may be here for the sun and the beach, but I have rather more serious matters to attend to' he said rather pompously, his accent perfect after several quite amusing hours spent listening to tapes of the Hendersons with Mitzi.

'Oh, has baby got work to do – shame!' she cooed back, pursing her lips Marilyn style at him. He felt his arm being nudged as Mitzi tidied up her makeup bag.

'Got a looker there, Professor' his neighbour to the right of him confided, glancing across at Mitzi, looking Illya up and down with the incredulous expression now apparent on the faces of most of the other passengers.

'Yes, my wife is, er, interested in outward appearance' Illya replied, staring at his neighbour, 'whilst I prefer to consider the inner man' he said, pointing at the title of the book now residing on his lap. The man glanced at the book, before, all his preconceived notions satisfied, he sat back and closed his eyes, while Illya rammed the receipts into the inside pocket of his jacket.

As they negotiated the nightmare that was Bermuda immigration, Illya could see that a reception party was waiting for them on the other side of the barrier. Two men stood by the glass doors of the terminal, their dark blue uniforms bearing the single letter J on the lapel, matched by a similar initial on their caps. As Illya piled up the small mountain of cases Mitzi had brought with her from New York, they came forward with a large trolley, effortlessly transferring the luggage to a large dark blue car with a cavernous boot and soft, tan leather interior.

Mitzi immediately began with a stream of totally inane conversation starters, thus freeing Illya to think about his job. Despite the map, he had no real idea where the location of the laboratories was, relying on Hoang not being able to resist showing him. Suddenly all this was pushed to one side in his mind by the thought of him drawing closer to those he loved. Not having to worry about the boys enabled him to focus more clearly, that and the certainty that his partner, hopefully aided by Anya, would do everything he could to retrieve Tess and the girls before any harm could befall them. Despite himself, a wry smile lit up his face as he thought of the American and his disguise.

The car sped along the causeway, Mitzi maintaining her high-pitched reactions to everything she saw, from the pink buses to the palm trees. Illya was not hugely fond of Bermuda, although he had enjoyed the few days holiday he had spent with the Robinsons. The climate got under his skin, and despite its beauty, he felt there was an underlying racial tension on the island which could explode with fatal consequences if not dealt with soon. The situation at the Janus resort appeared to mirror what he felt about the island; outward perfection hiding inner ugliness.

He had almost dozed off, due to the combined soporific elements of the afternoon heat and Mitzi's interminable talking when she dug him in the elbow and whispered 'this is it.' He shook himself and stared out of the window. A huge white wall seemed to run the length of the estate from sea to sea, only broken by a very large and elaborate set of gates piercing the expanse of white in front of them. An elegant but very clear sign read 'Janus Resort Village and Spa. Private' in massive letters beneath overhanging frangipane trees either side of the gates. Some unseen hand enabled the gates to swing open and they swept in up a long driveway. A series of white roofed cottages were clustered either side of the immaculate manicured lawns, Illya cringing slightly at their fake perfection while Mitzi kept up a gradually increasing chorus of 'oohs' and 'aahs' as they slowly moved along the road.

'Look, Roger, the spa!' she screamed, as a large hexagonal building came into view on the left, the lower floor a mass of reflective glass. Illya glanced absentmindedly at it over the top of his glasses before commenting rather loudly about the cost of absurd treatments, whilst internally noting the landmarks between the gate and the reception. He had noticed the roof of a much larger house on the right poking above the trees as they had passed, his heart beating slightly faster at the thought of who might be there. Shortly afterwards the car slowed and then came to a gentle halt outside the largest building they had seen, a sprawling pink two story complex which he knew without being told must contain the so-called board room.

The driver got out of the car, opening the doors for Illya and Mitzi, whilst his colleague saw to the myriad suitcases in the boot. Illya smoothed down his hair for the tenth time, wondering how anybody could put up with such a hairstyle for long, before following the chauffeur into the building. The air-conditioning of the car was as nothing to that in the reception area, the air verging on chilly as they approached the desk, a huge, curving affair. Immediately behind it lay a very expensive looking fitted unit of square doors on the wall, each labelled with the name of a tropical plant or creature.

Two women wearing the now ubiquitous navy uniform with the J insignia smiled ingratiatingly at them, as the two men melted away into the afternoon sun.

'Hi and welcome to Janus Resort Village!' one of the women, a sultry brunette with a broad American smile said. 'Professor and Mrs Henderson are staying in Coral, Vanessa.' As Mitzi gushed all over them, the second woman called Vanessa turned and removed a key with a deep orangey pink tassel attached from one of the square doors and handed it to Illya.

'Bernard will show you to your suite; details of your stay are in the folder in your room, Professor, but just to let you know that cocktails will be served in the Jade room at six thirty for all our new guests, and after dinner, there will be a short presentation about the resort in the Sapphire Bar.'

Illya dragged Mitzi away from the desk before anything else was said, following a very tall Bermudian up the stairs and along several corridors until eventually, the name of their suite appeared on a set of double doors to their right. Illya held his breath as Mitzi went into overdrive at the series of rooms, running from room to room as he stood fingering the fat file on the bedside table. Reaching into his wallet, he tipped the Bermudian who he was sure gave him a knowing smile before he left.

The suite, he had to admit was luxurious, with the same sumptuous level of air-conditioning he had enjoyed on the ground floor, and furnished in plush fittings which echoed its name. The walls were painted a rich coral pink like the tassel, the curtains and bedcovers picking up the theme in their pattern. He found Mitzi in the vast bathroom, checking out the array of complimentary toiletries.

'Mitzi, when you've finished, can we talk in the sitting room?' he said wearily, his expression not dimming her enthusiasm at all.

'Sure darling, I'm just going to have a super quick shower and then I'll join you; unless you want to . . ' Illya frowned, but good naturedly.

'I'm married Mitzi, and not to you, remember, at least in here.' She laughed, patting him on the cheek, before he walked out and shut the door on her.

He was half-way through reading the documents in the file when his communicator started to vibrate in the pocket of his shirt, the alarm shut off at least for the time being to avoid embarrassing moments.

'Napoleon? How did you know we'd arrived?'

'I saw you from the comfort of my little cottage. You know that group on the left, just beyond the Spa? I would imagine that for once, your accommodation is on a slightly grander scale.'

'You could say that. It's a wonder Mitzi hasn't had a seizure from the constant level of hysteria that she's managed to maintain since we arrived. Napoleon grinned at the mental picture of the Russian and Mitzi together which that comment occasioned.

'Was anybody interested in you and your charming wife on the plane?' Napoleon asked.

'The whole plane was interested in us. However, the man immediately behind us was of particular interest to me, seeing that he tried to kill me first on my way into UNCLE on the day that you killed me. You know, I have a feeling that Mr Hoang is using his own special team to do his work, rather than relying on the usual level of THRUSH hoodlum. At any rate, I think he and quite a few others, got the message that my wife is an expensive liability.'

'Well, we'll see if someone takes the bait then, Professor.' There was a slight pause, before Illya continued, a kind of muffled scream filling the gap.

'Napoleon; oh don't worry, that's just Mitzi discovering things in the bathroom. I have a very large file in front of me which you might benefit from seeing. We have cocktails this evening followed by a thrilling after dinner presentation about the resort, during which I'm hoping that someone will encourage me to get further involved in their evil little enterprise. After that I could plead exhaustion and let Mitzi embarrass herself around the place while we get together, if you like.'

'Fine. I'll see you at the presentation, actually, because I'm part of it. Your place or mine?'

'Yours, I think. I'll meet you there at about ten. Kuryakin out.'

Illya closed the file, sliding it into the drawer of the desk in the sitting room, before getting up and wandering towards the large sash window at the end of the room. The view was not of the sea, but rather looking back down the way they had come. He could see that there was a footpath leading from directly below him, past three quite large cottages towards Clark Hoang's house. As he stood there, the door of the cottage furthest away from him opened. He felt a disturbing mixture of elation and pain as three figures came out, the adult taking time to lock the door as the two children stood calmly by her side. Illya ran back across the room and grabbed his keys, frantically unlocking his briefcase and yanking out a very small pair of binoculars from inside.

They were still there, Anya, as he could see her clearly now, kneeling down to talk to Tasiya as Pascale stood closely by her side. He could tell from the body language that there was trust between Anya and the children, but a strong sense of fear communicated itself to him from the look on all of their faces. Tasiya, in particular looked very uncomfortable in the pink dress that Illya knew she must have been forced into, her hair held down both sides by similarly feminine but most un-Tasiya looking slides. Anya stood up and, in an act of certain unity they all held hands and moved away, Illya following them for a few moments down the path, until they disappeared behind the hedge of the large house.

He turned away from the window, lowering his head and trying to bring his breathing under control. He was suddenly aware of Mitzi in front of him, taking the binoculars from his hand.

'You've seen them, the children' she murmured. He nodded silently, before, enfolding his head in her arms, she held him close.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

'Iced tea, ma'am?' Therese was startled by the appearance of the man, a huge Bermudian, on whose tag the name 'Steve' was written in script below the ubiquitous J symbol worn by all the staff. Hoang had come into her bedroom that morning, handing her an appointment card with the name 'Brent' on it and the time neatly written underneath.

'Summer, we need to talk about a little addition I'm thinking of making to our family which I would like you to consider' he had said languidly, his face fixed in the unpleasant expression she had come to know so well. She glanced at the card before saying,

'A puppy? That would be fun, at least for a while.' Hoang had sniffed before saying,

'Not quite. Seeing that you've made it quite clear to me you don't want to be bothered with going through that again,' he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of her abdomen, 'I thought we might give Skye some companions.'

Therese frowned, steadying herself on the console table behind her.

'How sweet. As long as I don't have to give birth to them you can give her as many '_companions_' as you like.' Hoang looked at her, studying the card, apparently more concerned in her upcoming hair appointment than with meeting the girls, and marvelled at the irony of it all.

'Fine. Just one thing. They might be a little clingy to begin with and confuse you with their late mother.' Therese looked up, trying to echo the cruel smile she saw on Hoang's face.

'Oh I'm sure I can disabuse them of that idea pretty soon' she said.

Steve set down the iced tea on the large table, hesitating and glancing round before whispering, 'Your uncle wanted you to know that cousin Elijah and the boys are alive and well.' Therese froze, the Bermudian walking away as she grasped the drink and held it for a few moments before slowly sipping it. Clark suddenly appeared round the end of the hedge which cleverly camouflaged the swimming pool controls.

'Ah, there you are. We're waiting for you.' She put down the glass and followed him, smoothing her dress as she walked by his side up the bath.

She could see them in the room as they approached the French windows, Tasiya with her head buried in Anya's dress, Pascale's expression stoic in the extreme. Anya looked up, a look of genuine shock suffusing her face, her hand grasping Pascale's as the three of them stood rooted to the spot facing her. Pascale blanched, seemingly rendered speechless, as Tasiya turned. There was a moment's silence before she hurtled across the room towards Therese.

'Mama!' Therese froze, forcing herself to stop shaking or to touch the little girl in any way that would reveal anything of her true feelings. Tasiya's expression was at once marvellous and pitiful as she tried to understand why there was no response from her mother. Eventually, glancing back nervously at her sister, she began to slowly, and at first quietly, sob.

'Oh for God's sake, my dress!' Therese said, staring at Hoang. 'Now look what she's done!' She headed for the door, followed by a now screaming Tasiya, Pascale suddenly appearing in the corridor behind her. Therese turned, signalling to the girls to follow her up the stairs. Flinging off her high heels, she slammed the bedroom door behind them and grabbed them both.

'I'm so sorry; it's alright now, it is, it is'.

Anya watched as the scene unfolded, trying to make sense of what was happening. As Hoang went to the door, she said suddenly,

'I'd leave them if I were you.' He turned, his hand still on the brass knob, letting it twist back under his grasp.

'What have you done to her?' she said coldly, maintaining eye contact with him as he came back to face her. He sat down, fingering the drink he had poured himself before the girls had joined them.

'I've already explained. The changes are interesting, are they not? It's a shame her husband never lived to see how complete my victory over him and his organisation is becoming.' Anya sat down, still not able to fully comprehend or believe the story that Hoang had shared with her before the children had come into the room.

'Now, since we're alone again for a few moments, perhaps you could give me an answer, Madam Arshavina. As I said, you don't really have much choice as I see it; your country will almost certainly strip you of rank and may even consign you to one of their delightful camps. UNCLE, while it still exists, will no doubt blame you for the destruction of their top Section Two partnership, and I wouldn't have thought the American Government, or any other government for that matter, will welcome a former Soviet Spy willingly into their country. So, Anya, you are left with my offer. Escort my two daughters to the schools I have indicated, and then no doubt after the meeting on Friday, I'll be in a position to offer you a more interesting role in the ranks of THRUSH.'

He went over to a table and within moments a man had appeared.

'Go upstairs and tell my family to join us again, please' he said dismissively, before turning to Anya, a look of utter triumph on his face. 'Oh, of course, there is the other matter of course, which you will need to do before I can be entirely convinced of your loyalty.'

'What matter?' Anya replied, getting up.

'The small matter of telling the girls that their father is dead, and so any idea that papa will come for them must be put entirely out of their minds.'

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The sign 'Sapphire Room' in an alluring shade of blue was affixed to the wall above two very large doors opening into an equally capacious room. Inside, it was obvious that a presentation was about to take place, a large screen which was obviously used to show films normally was revealed between the elegant curtains either side of the stage, a camera, which Illya saw poking through a wall behind them showing a selection of stills from around the resort.

'Hi, and welcome!' yet another Janus employee grinned, pinning on circular name badges before they were able to take their seats at one of the small tables arranged in front of the stage. There was an attempt to create a kind of night club atmosphere in the room, each table having a small lamp resembling a fake candle, casting a glow over its occupants which Illya found faintly interesting. He guided Mitzi across the room, grateful for the shadows which he thought might reduce the interest their entry might arouse. However, Mitzi seemed to have other ideas, keeping up her very loudly-pitched admiration of everything and everyone around her.

They sat down eventually, a waiter appearing effortlessly behind them. Illya ordered a Scotch for himself, Mitzi insisting on discussing cocktails with the waiter at great length before deciding on a complicated and extremely expensive rum based drink called 'storm over the Caribbean.' Illya glanced at the door out of the corner of his eye, noting the fact that another couple had entered the room, a woman with intensely black hair and a very pale complexion and a tall, grey haired man whom Illya felt he knew.

As the waiter approached, he drew out his wallet, and carefully laid the receipts in front of his wife.

'Cindy' he began in a rather loud stage whisper, 'do you realise how much these receipts come to?' Picking up her drink, which was decorated with an array of paper umberellas and sticks with an assortment of objects he assumed were edible on them, she leaned across, a hurt expression covering her face.

'Rogy, I just can't help it baby; you take me to New York, I just have to shop; that's just natural, ain't it?' Illya slammed down his drink and ran his hands over his head as he saw the man's attention focused, and then the couple begin to move in their direction.

'I'm sorry, are we interrupting?'

Before he could speak, Mitzi had introduced them, the other man nodding immediately, while Illya made a complicated show of returning the receipts to his wallet.

'Professor Henderson at last. I have been waiting for some time to make your acquaintance, so it's fortunate we meet so soon after your arrival' he said suavely. 'Edvard Zoltan, at your service.' Illya stood up clumsily, rapidly revising the very large amount of information Dr Mary Francis had given him about Henderson's work and about this man, one of THRUSH's foremost scientists.

'Dr Zoltan, it's a pleasure' he replied, noting that the presentation seemed to be about to start behind them.

'Professor, perhaps we might just step outside for a moment?' Zoltan said, eyeing the two women at the table, Zoltan's companion now transfixed by Mitzi, who had begun speaking at top speed, apparently without drawing breath.

'Certainly' Illya replied, getting up and walking behind Zoltan towards the open French doors at the side of the room.

oHU

Zoltan strode through the opening and onto the lawn outside, making for a long seat underneath a tree. Illya joined him, the other man staring into space before speaking.

'I'm sorry to drag you away from your wife but I would like to propose something to you, Professor, which, bearing in mind your present position, might seem attractive.' Illya frowned a little. He could hear the strains of music beginning, somebody enthusiastically speaking, followed by polite clapping from the audience.

'Go on' he said, seeing that it was obvious Zoltan thought he should listen.

'We have been pleased with your work so far, Professor' he began, a miniscule smile forming on his lips. 'However, we feel that in order to make fuller use of your services, we need a greater commitment than you are showing at the moment.' Illya licked his lips slightly and smoothed down his hair, something that he had seen Roger Henderson doing in the cells at UNCLE when under stress.

'What do you mean?' he said a little breathlessly, now fidgeting with his fingers.

'What I mean, my dear Roger, is that Mr Hoang and I want to know if you are ready to commit yourself fully in the service of THRUSH? Illya looked at the man next to him, careful to maintain an air of nervous tension he had created as the conversation unfolded. He looked into the room at Mitzi, still talking at Zoltan's companion, who now had a glassy, dazed look on her face.

'Yes, she is quite high maintenance, isn't she?' Zoltan said smiling. He leaned back, his hand on the edge of the seat behind him. 'Think, Roger. The position we're offering will enable you to work unmolested by petty issues of morality and ethics which hold back the frontiers of science. And, my dear chap, your worries about your wife's spending habits will be a thing of the past.'

Illya stared at him for a moment, before looking back at Mitzi.

'I'll do it, with one proviso' he said. 'I'd like to see the laboratories where I'd be working. They have to be right, you see, top notch.' Zoltan looked askance at him, then began to laugh.'

'Oh my dear chap, of course' he replied, slapping Illya on the back, and then with a flourish of his hand, leading the way back inside.

xxxxxxx

Napoleon took off his jacket and collapsed onto the sofa, throwing down the glasses onto the seat beside him. He had watched his partner, a wry smile on his face at the way Kuryakin had assimilated not only the Professor's appearance, but even his walk and mannerisms. He had sidled up to Mitzi before the presentation began, insinuating himself into her conversation with a woman at the same table who looked absolutely delighted to include him in their chat.

'Oh hi, _Waylon'_ Mitzi gushed, staring fixedly at his badge. 'I'm Cindy, and this is Serena.'

'You girls alone tonight?' Napoleon said, with a full on smile like a toothpaste commercial set on his face.

'Oh gee, no!' Mitzi squealed. 'Our guys are having one of those serious conversations that are _so_ boring, right, Serena?'

'Right' Serena said, her expression betraying her desperation for the evening to end very soon.

'That's my hubby, and then that's Edvard Zoltan, Serena's guy, with him' Mitzi said, Napoleon's eyes thanking her for the information. Mitzi stared at his badge again and then looked out towards the two men in the garden.

'Style Consultant' she read slowly. 'Waylon, if I sent Roger to you, do you think you could re-style him for me?' Napoleon stared at the two men, his head to one side.

'It would be a challenge' he answered, 'but never let it be said that Waylon Shand ran away from anything. Send him to me in the morning, and I'll work a miracle for you, Cindy.'

xxxxxxxx

A faint knock on the window alerted him to his partner's arrival, as Illya stepped through the open French windows into the room.

'Good security' he said sarcastically, looking round the room and then wandering into the adjacent kitchen.

'Well, why would Waylon Shand need security?' Napoleon said, following him into the room. Kuryakin had on the same rather crumpled suit he had been wearing at the presentation earlier in the evening, the wig still firmly in place.

'Waylon Shand' Illya mumbled, pouring himself and Napoleon Vodkas out of the fridge; 'ridiculous name.' Napoleon smiled and took the drink, returning to the comfort of the sofa as his partner threw himself down on the chair opposite.

'So, what was the great Edvard Zoltan talking to you about?' Napoleon said. Illya put his drink down and dragged the file out of the briefcase he had put down by the chair.

'He was offering me a permanent position with THRUSH' Illya replied, tipping his glass towards Napoleon. 'I presume it's pensionable with the usual benefits.'

'Not if I know your new employer. So, did you accept?'

'Of course. I have a very talkative and very expensive wife to maintain. I did make one demand though.'

'Oh? And what was that?'

'That I view my new working environment. I'm fussy about where I work and who I work with.'

'Tell me about it. When are you going for the guided tour?' Illya pursed his lips, a look of feigned annoyance floating across his features.

'Well, apparently I have an appointment with my 'style consultant' tomorrow morning, so I 'believe we're going after that, before the ball tomorrow evening.'

'Ah yes, I have you booked in for nine o'clock.' Napoleon got up, a more serious expression suddenly replacing his smile. He went over to a table and returned carrying a large hard-backed appointments diary.

'Illya, look at this.' He opened the diary, and drew out a piece of paper.

'I copied this from Brent's diary. He's the hairdresser and other style consultant I work with most of the time.' Illya picked up the paper. The hour had been written down, followed by a group of names, all he presumed coming at the same time.

'Ten o'clock' he read, 'Summer Day, Taylor and Mitchell Hoang.' Silently, Illya handed back the paper to Napoleon and sat impassively for a few moments.

'He's given them new names' he murmured, his face angry and set.

'They're just names, Illya. He plays that gender game, he's done it before, you know that. He's not going to be calling them 'Tess, Pascale and Tasiya Kuryakin is he? Look at it this way,' Napoleon continued, 'he's obviously allowing them to come down to the spa together, presumably without a guard unless Anya has been recruited in that capacity, which must indicate that he is pretty confident that he has nothing to worry about from either Tess, Anya or anybody from UNCLE for that matter. Tomorrow, I will engineer an opportunity to bring us all together and hopefully to make some sort of escape plan. You must concentrate on your part of the mission and trust me to do mine. Have you got the explosives?'

Illya nodded, looking a little happier than before.

'Mitzi packed them in that special bag she has, together with all the stuff for me of course' he said, touching his face. He got up and refreshed his glass in the kitchen, collecting Napoleon's on the way, as Napoleon began to read through the papers in the file.

'Edvard Zoltan' Illya said out loud. 'I'm sure I know him from somewhere, other than an UNCLE file.'

'Well it sounds like he's your new best friend now, so just stop thinking about it and it'll come to you' Napoleon replied, looking up. 'By the way, you missed your old best friend whilst you and Edvard were best buddying out there.'

'Oh? And who was that?' Illya thought back, remembering the voice he had heard and then the clapping of the audience. As he held out Napoleon's glass it came to him.

'Dr Funk I presume?'

'None other. He stood right next to me and never gave me a second glance, which rather surprised me, seeing how much he likes blonds' Napoleon said, nodding at Illya.

The thought of meeting Funk again brought back painful memories to Illya, of personal, private thoughts dragged out of him for the purposes of making his 'twin' seem like the real thing. He shook his head slightly, a tiny smile illuminating his face at the thought of Funk's expression if he knew what had happened to Misha.

'Napoleon, if everything goes to plan there is then the slight matter of what we're going to do with Hoang' Illya said eventually. _And the other assignment I have_ he thought, remembering Waverly's face when he had handed him the piece of paper with the name 'Sergei Gregorovitch Arshavin' written on it.

'One thing at a time, comrade. It may be that your new employers will help us out there when Hoang's enterprise crashes.'

'They may' Illya said, _but I'm not going to rely on it_.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Illya stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He could feel his scalp beginning to itch underneath the confines of the wig, still very firmly on his head after over a day and a night, several showers and a lot of scratching. Taking a comb he carefully attempted to arrange the long strands of hair over the top of his head before returning to the bedroom where Mitzi was arranging his clothes on the bed. She looked up, noticing his expression as he slumped down on the bed beside another version of the crumpled suit and tie he had worn yesterday.

'What is it, darling?' she said, crouching down in front of him.

'This is one of the most uncomfortable things I've worn in my life and the hair is absurd' Illya complained, scratching his head and making the brown strands swirl in chaos across his bald patch.

'It is horrible, but think of it in this way' Mitzi said soothingly, 'it is keeping you alive in this place, don't you think? Besides which, Napoleon has designs on you, I believe.' Illya glared at her and then began to button up a particularly worn short sleeved shirt she handed him.

'He told me that you suggested it' he said, which is fortunate, for once, since it appears that my family will be joining me for the makeover.' Mitzi stared at him, and then with a little scream, threw her arms around him and kissed him.

'That is lovely, Illya' she breathed, after eventually releasing him. 'I knew that Napoleon would find a way of rescuing them from that horrible man.'

'Oh, did you?' Illya replied, raising his eyebrows and climbing into the rather baggy trousers and jacket. He bent down to tie up his shoes, before allowing Mitzi to re-arrange his hair and do some remedial work to his face.

'There! You are ready to go' she said finally, beginning to return all her equipment to a hidden compartment in one of the suitcases. Illya came over, putting his hand on her arm.

'Mitzi, tomorrow morning, I want you to take the private ferry that goes from here to Hamilton. It will not come as a surprise to anyone that you want to do some shopping, so nobody should find it odd or try to stop you. If all goes well, you may have some companions on the trip to talk to' he said, smiling. He gave her a piece of paper upon which was written a name and address. 'Memorise this and then destroy it' he said seriously, 'take a taxi to this address and stay there until one of us contacts you, alright?' Mitzi nodded, and then reached into the case.

'Take this' she said, giving him a small bar of what looked like soap. 'It will take all this off without hurting your face, right darling?' Illya took the bar and shoved it into his pocket, before standing still and straightening in front of her.

'Mitzi' he said, touching her arm, 'how do I look?' She grinned, looking him up and down.

'All clever and crumpled, darling, of course.'

'Good. That's what I thought.'

xxxxxxxx

Normally, Napoleon would have enjoyed spending time selecting clothes from the huge array that stood before him, but as usual, the knowledge that this was just a disguise served to both raise his blood pressure and also generate a certain frisson of excitement within him. The spa, a three-storied building devoted to improving the body by any luxurious means possible, contained an extensive gym and treatment rooms on the ground floor, the second floor, where he was working, devoted to beauty therapy and, in his case, the improvement of appearance through 'style counselling'. He had been given a tour of the building on his first day, but the third floor had been alluded to, rather than shown.

'The third floor is devoted to surgical improvement ', his guide had said; 'we always make sure at Janus that our patients are given the _utmost_ privacy during their stay there.' Napoleon had raised his eyebrows at this comment, determining to gain entry on his own tour as soon as he could.

His suspicions about the third floor were confirmed when he spotted Dr Erik Funk chatting with another man in the exclusive restaurant on the ground floor, the opaque glass opening out onto a series of exquisite pools and Jacuzzis perfectly positioned for sea views on both sides. As usual Funk looked through him, and then assumed his usual fake smile as he chatted to his companion.

'Way, there you are!' Brent Martine, the other style consultant who worked exclusively with a female clientele, breezed into the room. He was everything Napoleon's partner would find impossible to stomach in a human being; vain, superficial, obsessed with money and appearance. Napoleon smirked slightly at his perma-tan complexion and immaculately pressed clothes, let alone his hair, a rather dense brown colour, cut close in a style reminiscent of Perry Como.

'Hi Brent' Napoleon replied airily, looking through a rail of linen and silk suits he knew were Illya's size. Martine seemed incredibly excited, holding what looked like a classical gown in his arms, constructed from layers of almost diaphanous silk to create an ethereal garment of great beauty. 'It wouldn't suit you' Napoleon said, glancing at the gown and then at Martine's non-plussed face.

'Excuse me . . . oh, funny guy. No, this is for my most important client to date – you will never guess!' Napoleon turned, draping the clothes he'd selected over his arm and walking back towards the reception area with Martine.

'Go on, surprise me' he said as they reached the set of rooms they occupied. A sign 'A new you' was stencilled onto the large reception doors in gold, opening onto a shared hairdressing area, with two separate, large rooms adjoining. Martine laid the gown down gently on a richly upholstered Bergère chair in his room, which reminded Napoleon of stepping back into Eighteenth Century France.

'I had a visit from that nice servant of Mr Hoang's yesterday; you know, Steve?' Napoleon nodded, glancing at his watch. 'Well, in an hour's time, we will be expecting not only his fiancée, but his two other children as well!' he exclaimed excitedly, beginning to rush round, removing invisible dust from the elaborate table in front of them.

'I didn't know he had any other children' Napoleon murmured, staring at himself in the mirror.

'Nor did I, but apparently, according to Peggy, who knows _everything_ round here, they're adopted, well they would be wouldn't they, seeing that . . . well, anyway, they're adopted; he picked them up after some UNCLE agent died. How about that?

'Amazing' Napoleon said, edging towards the door. 'Makes you wonder who the agent was.' Martine followed him out, starting to get his hairdressing impedimenta out of a small cupboard next to one of the chairs in the salon.

'Well, Peggy reckons it was . . .' he leaned over towards Napoleon, as if the walls had ears, '_Illya Kuryakin_.'

Napoleon jumped back in mock horror, trying to keep the grin from seeping onto his face.

'Oh my God, Brent!' he exclaimed. 'Better be careful then; the kids might take after the father.' Martine froze, his scissors in hand.

'You think so?' he said, his face stricken.

'Could be' Napoleon replied, assuming a serious face. 'They say he was a ruthless assassin with a particular penchant for hairdressers.' It was hard not to laugh out loud at Martine's look of utter horror at that statement. 'Hey, but they're just kids, aren't they?' Napoleon continued, as Martine collapsed onto the chair, not forgetting to check himself in the mirror before doing so.

'I suppose. I saw a picture of him once. He didn't look so scary, and, oh my God, his hair was a total mess! Sensational colour though, bit like yours, Way.'

He suddenly got up, spinning round as Napoleon turned and smiled. Illya was standing in the doorway, a bemused expression on his face and a card in his hand.

'Er, I'm looking for a Mr Shand' he said slowly, peering at them over his glasses. Brent Martine rolled his eyes and leapt up, giving Napoleon a horrified expression as he flounced out of the room.

'What was all that about me and hairdressers?' Illya asked as Napoleon removed his jacket and signalled him to the chair.

'We were discussing your murderous intentions towards them' Napoleon replied, covering the Russian with a cape and advancing towards him with a pair of clippers in his hand.

'Well don't forget them then if this wig slips in any way at all' Illya muttered as his partner began to whizz the clippers over his head.

xxxxxxx

Therese placed the image on the table, smoothing out the paper before staring at the gown held out to her by Brent Martine.

'It's perfect' she said, glancing back at the paper on the desk. 'Now all you have to do is to re-create that' she said, pointing to the elaborate hairstyle of the woman in the image.

_ 'Mrs Richard Bennett Lloyd by Sir Joshua Reynolds'_ Pascale read out slowly, staring down at the picture. 'Who was she, and what is she doing'?

'Who was she, and what is she doing, _mother_' Therese said haughtily, winking surreptitiously at Pascale. 'She was called Joanna, and this portrait was painted to celebrate her marriage to Mr Lloyd, who was a British soldier' she continued. 'At least that's what I read, as if anyone could possibly be interested in actually studying that stuff' she said. 'I just thought it might be fun, and I just _love_ her hair!'

'But what is she doing to that tree . . . _mother_?' Pascale pressed, sighing with feigned boredom. Therese bent down slightly, squeezing Pascale's hand as she did.

'She's carving his name on the tree, like . . er, Tracy loves Elijah or something' she said, glancing at Pascale, who began to smile.

Brent lay the gown down on the chair and came across, pulling a face at Pascale's rather plain dress and sandals.

'I think we can work wonders with this' he gushed, grabbing at Tess's hair, and swirling it up round her head.

'Yes, well do something with it; it's pretty boring the way it is' she replied. They both stared at Pascale, who was looking anxiously towards the door.

'I thought you had another of those' Brent said, as if Pascale was a pet poodle.

'She's gone to the bathroom with the nanny' Tess said, sighing. She went over to Pascale, holding her shoulders from behind with both hands.

'Now, darling, you've come up with the goods for me, what about this one? I don't want to be embarrassed tonight, even if it's only for the first five minutes whilst Clark shows off his new acquisitions, do I?

Tasiya let go of Anya's hand, and ran on up the stairs, not listening to the shouts and pleading behind her. Hurtling round the bend, she found herself in a little gold carpeted room, with two big doors in front of her. She stood there for a moment, before slowly creeping up to the big doors and looking in.

The room looked a bit like Uncle Frank's shop but prettier, she thought. It was shiny and clean everywhere, except for some brown hair on the floor which she bent down and picked up, before letting it drift down softly again. She went up to one of the mirrors in front of the chairs and stared at herself. She hated the clips mama had put in her hair and wanted to rip them out, but mama had said it was part of the game, so she had stood still for the silly things to be put in.

On the work surface in front of the mirror a small pair of scissors lay. Tasiya touched them, and then pushed her fingers in the holes as Passa had shown her. She felt the part of her hair with the clip in again, and looking in the mirror, guided the scissors towards the hated clip.

'_Non! Arrête-toi, lapin.'_

The scissors fell to the floor with a metallic clunk as Tasiya turned, a mixture of joy and utter confusion on her face. She could hear papa but not see him, only a funny man with no hair and nice clothes standing in the doorway to the other room from where mama and Passa were. She glanced uneasily towards mama's room before the man spoke again with papa's voice, beckoning to her and kneeling down.

'_Tenushka, viens, petit chou.'_

Only papa knew her special pet name and used it. But papa had always told her never to go to strangers. Her lip trembled as the funny man stood up and walked slowly forward; kneeling down in front of her and holding out his hand. Looking down at the hands, it was then that Tasiya realised.

'Papa, you playing the game too?'

xxxxxxxx

Pascale scowled, as Brent Martine buttoned the cardigan up, as if she was a little child, she thought. They had gone through what felt like dozens of outfits for her, after which she had been persuaded to discard her dress in favour of a much brighter little skirt and blouse with a matching cardigan. As she did up the buckle of her new sandals the door opened.

'Miss Day, I wonder if you could help me? It's Mitchell.' Tess, who was lounging on the chaise longue on the other side of the room heaved herself up, an annoyed expression filling her face.

'Oh what now?' she exploded, giving Pascale a wink as she passed.

'Mother, I'll come. She'll be better if I calm her down.' Pascale said, running in front of her through the door.

'Just pack this lot up and send it up to the house' Tess said over her shoulder. 'I'll be back this afternoon for my hair appointment, without _them_.' She flounced out of the room as best she could considering her size, and the fact that since that morning she had been feeling slightly strange and uncomfortable.

Oddly, the room used as a salon was empty, only the other man who Brent Martine had told her was seeing to 'one of those horrible little professor types' stood there smiling inanely at her and signalling for her to go in the other room. She cocked her head to one side, wondering what it was about him that was so memorable, before she shrugged and headed for the door.

As she entered, he quickly got behind her and locked it, before coming round to stand at her side.

'Welcome to the Kuryakin family reunion' he murmured, quickly grabbing Tess by the arm as she staggered slightly.

Dragging her gaze away from the man with Napoleon's voice, she stared at the group in front of her. A man with closely shaven brown hair and a rather sharp grey suit made of a very expensive looking silk material was sitting with Tasiya on his lap, the little girl kneeling up and stroking the top of his head mechanically with both her hands as Pascale lay in a semi recumbent position by his side with her head resting on what space remained on his knees.

'Girls, I er . . . oh . . . Jesus.'

He got up as quickly as he could and came to her, his body and hands instantly communicating what his facial appearance failed to do. Tess felt her whole body shudder, the baby moving under his touch as he gently crushed her to himself.

'Illyusha, _corazon_' she managed, before she felt herself dizzy with emotion as he kissed her head and face over and over again.

'I'm sorry, this was our only chance' he said hoarsely, carefully guiding her over to the grey sofa at the other side of the room, the children following, Tasiya holding on firmly to her father's other hand as if her life depended on it.

'I had no idea' Anya said suddenly, from the door, a mixture of elation and amazement beaming out of her normally serious face. 'Napoleon, you are so smooth and Lyusha, you are so . . .'

'Ugly?' Illya said, looking at her over his glasses.

'You didn't see him before I got to him' Napoleon said, coming over and drawing a chair up to the sofa. 'I hate to break up the party, children' he began, looking at Anya, who had hung back from the seething group on the sofa, 'but we need to make some plans, and I have another client in half an hour, by which time you should all be long gone.'

Illya sat up and helped Tess to get comfortable, as the children remained close to them either side on the sofa. He glanced at his wife, noticing that she had both put on weight and that the baby had grown considerably, for both of which he was grateful but slightly concerned.

'Have they been looking after you?' he whispered to her, resting his face for a moment in the abundant hair flowing down between them.

'Yes. I'm well' Tess replied, staring at his head anxiously.

'It's a wig. It's still there, underneath' Illya murmured, seeing her smile for the first time since she'd entered the room.

Napoleon cleared his throat, touching Illya's arm.

If we can all get through tonight's extravaganza without being recognised, then tomorrow morning, Anya and I will take Tess and the girls to Hamilton on the ferry, and from there to the Robinsons' house at Tucker's Town. Then Illya . .'

'No, I can't go.'

Illya frowned, his body language apparent as he twisted round towards his wife.

'Tess. Please leave this to us. We won't fail again, I promise you.' Therese squeezed his hand before saying to Anya, 'take the girls home now. I'll follow shortly. If there's anything, I'll tell you later.' She turned to Tasiya, who was welded to Illya's side, and took her hand.

'Tasiya, go with Passa and Anya now. Papa will see you later, I know. And remember Tasiya, Papa and Uncle Napoleon are playing the game now, and we must be very, very careful not to tell anybody, especially . . . '

''Specially Monsieur scary eyes' Tasiya said, her own eyes huge and round as she gave her father one last, huge hug and kiss, and a quick stroke of his head.

'I _like_ papa's head like that' she pronounced, as she got up, Pascale turning as they left the room to take one last look.

As soon as the door closed, Napoleon locked it again and came over to sit the other side of Tess on the sofa.

'Tell me to mind my own business, but, for the sake of the children, all the children' he said, looking at the bump, you should leave tomorrow, Tess.'

'You don't understand, either of you. Tomorrow, at the big meeting which I'm sure you'll be invited to Illya, Lee, or Clark as he is now, is going to launch his bid to . . .

'get back into the good books of THRUSH' Napoleon said. 'We know that.'

'No, it's not just that' she said, frowning. 'Clark's not interested in just being one of them. He wants to run it. Tomorrow, he is certain that what he has to offer will enable him to take control of THRUSH.'

The two men looked at each other, Napoleon immediately reaching for his communicator. Therese reached out, putting her hand on his arm.

'Listen. The meeting is in two parts. The first part is the presentation of the drugs he's been developing, including the one I'm supposed to have been given. I think he's also going to talk about the mumps thing.' Illya's brows furrowed and he put his arm round Therese's shoulders.

'That sounds as if he'll be outlining where the next outbreak will be' he said, 'and judging from the last one, it will be somewhere big.' Tess nodded.

'From what he said to that Romanian chap who's staying with us, both the mumps virus and sperm banks are here somewhere.'

'What sperm banks?' Napoleon said, staring at Illya.

'Well don't look at me, I'm not a spy' Tess said, 'but looking at it logically, I would assume that Clark is out to not only threaten future world fertility, but to control it as well.'

Napoleon looked at her and then back at Illya.

'Have you been having any secret training that we don't know of?' Illya grimaced.

'Don't encourage her. When we get home you are retiring from the spy business, understood?'

'Yes darling' she said, stroking his head. 'You know, I think Tasiya's right, he has got a rather nice shaped head.'

'Don't you start.' Illya got up and returned from the table with a pad, the Janus logo clearly affixed to the top, jotting down a few notes as Napoleon started speaking.

'Tonight we all need to be careful about the large number of unpleasant characters around and particularly to help Pascale not give the game away. By then, Professor, you will know exactly where the laboratory is, so I suggest that after the festivities have ended, we do a little after-hours homework. How long are the timers?

'Up to twenty four hours, but they're not automatic. I have to set them off, and I need to be at least fairly near in order to do so.'

'Uh-huh. So if we lay them tonight, you can set them off tomorrow before we take our leave.' Illya put the pencil down on the pad.

'Napoleon, you must take Tess and leave tomorrow as soon as the meeting is over. I need to know that you will carry out your part of this mission and let me carry out mine, without being slowed down in any way. John will organise something for you all and I will . . er rendezvous with you later.' Napoleon squinted at him slightly before turning back to Therese.

'Napoleon, don't take any notice of him. I can take care of myself. You need to make sure he doesn't blow himself up or something' she said, ignoring Illya's amazed look in her direction.

'Right, anybody else like to tell me my job' he said, staring at them both. 'When I last looked, you, 'he said' pointing at Illya, were two years my junior and under my command, and you, 'he continued, smiling at Tess, 'were about to give birth and hadn't yet undergone Section Two training. We stick together in this, right, and you both do exactly as I tell you to, right?' Illya and Therese stared at each other, and then at him, their expressions not filling him with any certainty that they would take the least notice of anything he'd said.

'Right' they said.

xxxxxxxxx

The room was cool to the point of chilly, but for once Therese was glad of it. She lay on the vast bed, glancing round at her immaculately themed surroundings. She had been informed before her visit to the hairdresser that afternoon, that the main building where she now knew Illya was staying in, and where the evening reception would take place, would be made available to her for her 'preparations' as Clark had called them.

'I hope I'll have some assistance then' she had replied, noting the rather satisfied smile on Hoang's face every time she was demanding or unpleasant. He had picked up the phone, and this time to Therese's satisfaction, had requested that the style consultants be available.

She had spoken to Anya as soon as she had returned that morning.

'Theresa, Hoang has told me that I have to tell the children their father is dead' she said rather seriously. 'I think that Polina will be able to look suitably broken in spirit, but but Tasenka will be irrepressible of course.'

'She's only three, and although she's a Kuryakin, we can't expect her to be fully trained up yet' Therese said, laughing. 'We must keep her away from old scary eyes as much as possible; luckily, he's far too busy planning the take-over and destruction of the world to be bothered with a little girl, even if her name is Anastasiya Kuryakin.'

'Excuse me; Mitchell Hoang' Anya murmured, beaming. 'Now listen, I have spoken to your fiancée and I am allowed to take them to Hamilton tomorrow to purchase books and toys for the journey to their new school.' At the words Therese's expression fell, the import of them suddenly drowning all other, happier thoughts. 'I have to be back for the afternoon meeting' Anya continued, 'but hopefully there will be too much attention being focused on that for anybody to notice that they are no longer with me.'

Therese gazed at her feet, the ankles looking a little swollen despite the constant air-conditioning. In spite of her own, precarious position, thoughts of Anya filled her mind. Logically, she should distrust someone who so obviously was in love with her husband, but in her heart she felt the growth of the same warm, loving relationship with her that she had shared with Sabi. Closing her eyes, she prayed that it would not be taken from her.

xxxxxxx

A narrow, but expensively bound book with the familiar THRUSH logo and the name _Floreşti School _in gold blocked letters lay on the table between the three chairs drawn up in Clark Hoang's elegant drawing room. Edvard Zoltan sat down and then leaned forward casually to pick it up, smiling at the familiar landscape in the images on the first few pages.

'You're lucky to have got them in so quickly' Zoltan said over his shoulder, as Hoang sat down, the ubiquitous servant sliding the coffee tray onto the table and silently withdrawing to a position where their conversation was within his hearing.

'I assured them that they were getting two children of the highest calibre, but with the potential for stubborn resistance to accepting their future roles in our organisation ' Hoang replied, sipping his coffee. 'I do hope that your recommendation will prove to have been the right one, Edvard.' Zoltan shut the book as the third chair was filled, Sergei Arshavin nodding to the other two before taking his coffee and glancing at the book in Zoltan's hand.

He had been on the island for the last few days since he had supervised his wife's abduction of the two Kuryakin girls and their arrival by boat at the port in Hamilton. Anya had avoided his amused stare as they were escorted to their car, and he had shown little interest in seeing her since. What interested him far more was whether the man sitting opposite was prepared to offer him a more lucrative future than the one he presently occupied in the Thirteenth Department of the First Chief Directorate of KGB Intelligence. In the next twenty four hours he needed to decide whether he should take whatever was being offered by THRUSH, or carry out the assassination of Hoang and take Kuryakin's wife by way of a final slap in the face to both THRUSH and UNCLE.

Despite only having been given a supporting role to his wife in her liaison with UNCLE, Arshavin had taken it upon himself to infiltrate Hoang's network, delivering up the Kuryakin children as the prize for his recruitment to THRUSH. However, on reflection it seemed that by ensuring the liquidation of the man who was now classified as an enemy of the Soviet State, he might actually gain the recognition and position he so desperately craved for and most assuredly deserved. Either way, the news of Kuryakin's death and Solo's imprisonment meant that only one person stood between himself and ensuring that his old masters recognised and rewarded his service on their behalf.

'We were just discussing my daughters' education' Hoang said, as Arshavin took his coffee, indicating the book in Zoltan's hand. 'Edvard has been very helpful in finding us the right school amongst those in our organisation which will provide the girls with the necessary training and discipline to carry on our work into the next generation' he said, taking the book from Zoltan and handing it to Arshavin.

Arshavin flipped over the cover and stared at the picture of the school on the first page, noting the towering walls surrounding a rather stark looking four story building with a prison like exterior of grey forbidding stone. He flicked over a few more pages, the book outlining a curriculum which even the most severe of schools he had ever visited seemed soft in comparison.

'They are not going there to amuse themselves, but to be broken and then reformed in the service of THRUSH' Hoang said harshly, as Arshavin returned the book to the table.

'Far be it from me to interfere in your family' Arshavin began, 'but I think it would be extremely unwise if you were to entrust them into the hands of comrade Markova.' He noticed Zoltan's frown at the use of his wife's former name, but Hoang's face remained immobile and silent. He got up from the chair and glanced into a mirror on the wall near the window opposite, imperceptibly murmuring into what appeared to be his watch, before turning back to the other two men.

'Oh but I don't trust her' he said, looking down at Arshavin. 'Trust is something people like Kuryakin and his wife believed in.' He came back and sat down. 'Don't worry, Sergei, I think you'll find that my daughters will be safely delivered to their new school rather sooner than they expected and your wife, well let's say she'll be going on a journey too, _trust_ me, my dear chap.'

xxxxxxxx

The knock on the door was surreptitious but unmistakeable.

'Open it, it's Napoleon', Illya shouted from the bathroom, before emerging wearing only his towel to Mitzi's obvious approval. She dashed over to the door and then opened it slowly, reassured by Napoleon's wide grin and friendly greeting for the benefit of anybody in the corridor who might want to listen.

He slipped inside, glancing round the room and his partner with slightly raised eyebrows, before pulling up a couple of pillows and sitting comfortably on one of the beds.

'Make yourself comfortable' Illya muttered, grabbing his underwear and socks and retreating to the safety of the bathroom.

'Misery' Napoleon replied, watching Mitzi laying out the Russian's evening dress and then checking herself in the mirror.

'You look charming, Mrs Henderson' Napoleon offered, as Mitzi applied a third coat of bright red lipstick, before coming over and slipping her feet into a pair of shiny black high heels.

'Likewise Waylon darling' she simpered, tottering over towards the bathroom and then opening the door to a barrage of Russian which Napoleon hoped she didn't quite understand. She came back, seemingly totally unabashed and sat down carefully facing Napoleon.

'He's very rude but one has to take one's opportunities when they come darling' she said, smiling.

'Mitzi, I'm shocked' he replied before Illya came out and grabbed the suit from her hands.

'Don't be' he said, putting on the trousers, 'she has no shame at all. Next time, you can have her.' Mitzi got up and pulling Illya round to face her began to fasten his bow-tie.

'Napoleon darling, you have made a lovely job of his hair' she said, trying to kiss Illya whilst she talked. 'Rudi will be over the moon that it worked so well.'

'Too well' Illya said, pushing her back gently. 'I think I'm breeding something under there.' Mitzi walked over to the other bed and grabbed her stole and evening bag.

'Don't talk for too long boys' she said, giving them both a small wave, 'I can only bore Serena for so long before someone starts wondering where my husband has got to.'

'I'll see you downstairs in five minutes' Illya sighed, seeing her to the door.

There was a sudden interruption to their conversation as Illya's communicator vibrated on the bed where he had put it while he was dressing.

'Mr Kuryakin? It's Steve Bailey.' Illya frowned, before sitting down on the bed, Napoleon coming up closer to listen as well.

'I think you should know that Hoang plans to . . ' He suddenly stopped mid- sentence, before whispering hurriedly, 'sorry, have to go, will get back to you later.'

Illya stared at the communicator before shrugging his shoulders and putting it in his pocket.

'What was that about?'

'I have no idea. Perhaps one of us could catch him later and find out' Illya replied, getting up. 'He sounded fairly worried, but there's nothing we can do about it at the moment' he added. Napoleon stood up and went over to a small refrigerator in the sitting room, coming back with two small vodka martinis laced with ice and, to Illya's amazement, a sliver of lime in each glass.

'So, how did the guided tour go?'. Illya walked over to the table in the adjoining room and came back with a map of the resort. With a pen he circled the part of the building they were in marked 'Board Room' and also the Spa.

'The laboratories are not where we thought they might be exactly' he began, drawing a large rectangular shape between the two buildings. 'You can reach them either from the Spa or from the Board Room, and they do bear a passing resemblance to the other place we visited in Norway, in that both the sperm storage areas and the lab itself are on raised platforms within the subterranean space, which is in itself a remarkable feat of engineering' he added.

'Yes, well spare me your usual technical brilliance and cut to the chase. I presume there's a problem?'

'In one word, yes. Like Norway, access to each of the buildings and to the underground storage facility and the labs are from a series of walkways; however, they are not the problem, Napoleon. It is what lies beneath that concerns me.'

'I'm sorry, you've lost me, Illya. What does lie beneath?'

'A very large, sub-tropical lake to be precise. Although the walkways appear to be high up and away from the water, they seem to be jointed together in some way and I got the feeling they could be moved downwards if necessary. The whole place looks and feels like a rainforest, Napoleon, minus the really large trees of course. The vegetation is fairly limited naturally, but that isn't the problem.

'So? . . .'

'It's what is in the lake that's the problem, Napoleon.'


	8. Chapter 8

PART EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Between the Reception area and the Board Room lay the Tamarisk Suite, a long rectangular room with the seemingly obligatory full length French windows opening out to another very large terrace and the omnipresent sea. Napoleon, thankfully freed for the moment from the demands of any male clients anxious about their appearance, sauntered through the double doors at the end of the corridor, his communicator on open but local for ease of access to his partner, whom he noted was now following him at a discreet distance.

'Well, well; what a gathering we have here' he murmured into his lapel as he moved nonchalantly round the edge of the room and out of the end window towards the bar, which had been set up at the end of the terrace. Elegant circular tables had been arranged in curves round the two short sides of the room, a stage on the back wall supporting a small combo, who were already providing what was usually described as 'easy listening' music to those guests moving between their tables and the terrace outside.

'Yes, this is a bit like 'guess the villain' night, isn't it?' his partner murmured back, the hint of an eastern European accent seeping back into his voice before Napoleon heard him switch on Roger Henderson once more. Napoleon availed himself of a martini dry at the bar before lurking in the farthest doorway from the entrance, affording him a good view of the guests as they came in.

It was immediately obvious to Napoleon that only THRUSH personnel of the highest ranking had been invited. Despite constant monitoring, it was difficult for even UNCLE to know exactly who was on the THRUSH Central Council, and who amongst those held the positions of highest authority. He was surprised therefore at who was present, and at who was not. The smell of a particularly rich Cuban cigar immediately alerted him to Anton Korbel, who he'd left five years previously tied up in his casino, awaiting what Napoleon assumed was almost certain nemesis at the hands of his employers. Korbel had not been seen since, but Napoleon had wondered on several occasions subsequently whether his financial acumen had ensured his survival or not.

He glanced round the room again, noting several other men and women he'd only ever seen on UNCLE files before this moment, until his gaze lit on a woman standing talking to someone he definitely recognised.

'I see your comrade is here, but who's the woman?' he said, simultaneously raising his glass to a rather portly man who he'd helped squeeze into a very expensive evening suit earlier that evening.

'Sergei Gregorovitch is no comrade of mine' came the terse reply; 'but you may be interested to know that she is none other than Dr Egret of blessed memory.' Napoleon swallowed a little more of his martini than he had intended, Illya having to wait until he'd recovered himself, much to the Russian's amusement.

'Jeez. I always wondered what that woman looked like.'

'Well now you know.' There was a high-pitched scream of pleasure into the communicator, which was luckily matched by the band striking up a fairly noisy rendition of 'The shadow of your smile.' Napoleon heard Mitzi insisting on dancing with her husband and his rather desperate attempts not to comply. He looked up to see her dragging off Edvard Zoltan onto the dance floor as Kuryakin retreated gratefully to the back of the room, sitting down to talk with a woman who was hidden by the portly man, now collapsed into a chair just in front of them.

'I'm sure your expertise will be extremely useful to any future developments in this field' Napoleon heard her say, the rather breathless tones arousing a rather unpleasant memory in his head.

'I very much hope so, Dr er . . DaBree' Illya replied rather loudly, catching sight of Napoleon's raised eyebrows to confirm that his partner had now connected the person to the voice. 'Um, what research are you pursuing at the moment?' he enquired, Napoleon smiling at the man's ability to immerse himself in the character he was assuming. He saw DaBree smile in the rather lunatic way she was apt to, before leaning over towards Illya.

'Oh, I've taken over Dr Winnifred Engel's neurosurgical work' she said, 'it was such a tragedy it was so _unfortunately_ interrupted. Still, with new facilities and the support of Mr Hoang, there is no knowing what can be achieved.' Despite the amount of latex on Kuryakin's face, Napoleon could see, if nobody else could, that the Russian had blanched at the last statement. He got up shortly afterwards and walked past Napoleon out onto the terrace, picking up a glass of what Napoleon thought might be sherry from the bar as he went.

'OK?'

'I will be in a minute, if I can get rid of the taste of what masquerades as sherry from my mouth. When there are such fine sherries, it makes one wonder why the British still insist on drinking Harvey's Bristol Cream' he said despairingly.

'I'll make sure at the next THRUSH party we go to, they get in the Dry Fino, comrade' Napoleon replied, staring at his partner's back as Mitzi rushed through and grabbed Illya from behind. Napoleon watched with amusement as the Russian threw his sherry onto the ground before turning and indulging his wife with a charming smile.

'Have I told you that you look the most beautiful woman here tonight' he said, occasioning a swooning reaction from Mitzi, who turning round, dragged him over towards Napoleon.

'Waylon, darling, you are the God of Style Consultancy!' she gushed. 'I . .I feel like I got me a new husband! Of course, not that I didn't the love the old one, but the new Roger is pretty neat, eh Rog?'she continued, digging Illya in the ribs before she flung her arms round him again.

Napoleon leaned nearer, glancing round before saying,

'Illya, where is Tess?' Hoang has just walked in, and if I'm not mistaken, he's just had a five minute chat on the terrace with our KGB friend.' Illya continued to speak from behind Mitzi, who was now straightening up his bowtie to the amusement of several guests stood out on the terrace.

'Where is Arshavin now?'

'Gone in the opposite direction.' Illya straightened slightly, continuing to smile at Mitzi before murmuring, 'I'm going upstairs. Mitzi, spill your drink on me, please.'

'Be careful. I'll come up in five minutes, and keep your communicator on. Mitzi, you go with Illya and then wait in your room. Phone down and ask for me when you reach the room.'

After a moment, Mitzi casually reached down for her glass and then tripping forward, emptied its contents over her husband's jacket, as Napoleon slipped away out of the window towards Brent Martine, who was enthusing at length to a woman he recognised as a Mexican THRUSH Central member called Maria Dolores Vasquez. He saw his partner and Mitzi leaving the room, Mitzi attempting to mop up the Russian with a serviette as they went.

xxxxxx

Sergei Gregorovitch Arshavin had been engaged in an interesting but ultimately pointless conversation with a THRUSH council member from Japan as he spied Hoang approaching from the direction of his house along the path which led past the cottage where his wife and the two Kuryakin children were staying. He had been alone, Arshavin wondering when the woman he had last seen on the wall of the Kuryakin's kitchen in New York would be making an appearance, as they all had been promised. He had arrived at the party with another woman Hoang seemed to have in his control, a blond American nurse who insisted on telling him her life story and pleading with him to help her find her missing child. He had affected interest, but the image of Therese Kuryakin lay fixed in his mind, his need to see her becoming progressively greater and more urgent as the evening wore on.

He had already disposed of Anya in his head, Hoang assuring him that she would be eliminated once she had carried out the transport of the children to Romania.

'Don't worry, Sergei' he had said expansively, 'I will be sending Five with them, just to make sure she doesn't suffer from last minute nerves.' Yvonne Shumway had explained to him about the drug she had given Therese Kuryakin earlier in the evening as they had walked from her cottage.

'The effects are permanent' she had said, her eyes closing for a moment, as if the fact could be blotted out just by doing that. 'The drug is adaptive, in that the tape recorded information sets the character of the person, and then they further adapt as things happen to them, if you get my meaning. For instance, Therese Kuryakin would never behave in the way that _she_ does' she said, as if 'she' was another person entirely from the woman she had nursed another lifetime ago in New York.

'So what does the future hold for Miss Day?' Arshavin had asked, watching Yvonne's face flush as he spoke.

'I . . I'm not sure' she had said, Arshavin guessing that she did know, and that whatever it was, she was deeply disturbed by it.

The Japanese man drifted away as Hoang approached and stopped beside him, Arshavin offering him a Black Sobranie from his silver case before lighting them both, the other man's face entirely impassive in the evening light as he drew deeply on the cigarette.

'Arshavin. You look a little, disappointed.' Arshavin exhaled, and then flicked the ash onto the floor before turning towards the sea.

'I was hoping that your fiancée might be here by now' he said rather abruptly, kicking at a small lizard on the tiles of the terrace. He saw the familiar sneer appear on Hoang's face as the other man blew out a line of smoke into the evening gloom.

'Oh really. Well, you obviously don't know women very well then, or at least this woman' he said, taking another long draw of the Sobranie, and signalling to someone behind Arshavin for a drink.

'That's the point. How can I . . .?'

'Get to know her?' Arshavin kicked himself inwardly for the pleading tone which he could hear in his voice. He found it hard to believe he was putting himself in this position, but the thought of her drove him on, however insane his quest might seem.

Hoang stubbed his cigarette out on the large pot of oleander by them, before lifting a vodka martini from the tray proffered to him.

'I tell you what, _old man_, Hoang murmured in a cynical impression of the white Bermudian population surrounding them, 'why don't you go up and get to know her better?'. He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small card with four numbers printed on it. 'Surprise her; I'm sure you'll both enjoy it.' Arshavin stared at him, then took the card and walked swiftly away.

'What did that _untermensch_ want?' Hoang looked round, a faint smile on his lips at Zoltan's apparent concern.

'Now now Edvard, one must try to love the Russians, even though at heart we both know they are a depressing blot on the copybook of humanity. At least some of them have something to offer' he said, watching the other man. 'I'm afraid our little KGB man has rather taken to Summer, so I've given him permission to, as it were, try her out. It will be interesting to see what happens now all that nauseating Christian morality of hers has been finally removed from her psyche.'

'You don't mean to say that you're allowing him to . . .'

'Rape her? Oh I don't think he'll get that far, do you?' Zoltan stared at him, before taking a rather large swig of the scotch he was holding.

'But she's pregnant, for God's sake.' Hoang stared back, a look of mock amazement animating his face for a moment.

'Come come Edvard. This new found concern of yours for women and unborn children somewhat amazes me, seeing that you were responsible for the deaths of, what was it, over a hundred thousand men, women and children in the Ukraine during the war?' Zoltan's face reddened intensely, and slamming the glass down on a table behind him, he turned and disappeared into the room.

Hoang made an imperceptible movement with his hands, a black suited man with the number 16 embroidered on the stand up collar of his jacket and similarly tattoed on his hand appearing behind him.

'Go to the Pearl suite in fifteen minutes and report what you find directly to me' he said, before, with a sardonic smile, he advanced into the room.

xxxxxxx

The beautiful dress made in the style of the Reynolds painting hung like a soft cloud on the wardrobe door, as Therese carefully retouched the lipstick which Brent Martine had so painstakingly applied half an hour earlier. She looked at herself in the mirror of the wardrobe's open door, the baby quiet at the moment, her abdomen curving highly from underneath her breasts, making breathing difficult, or at least breathing in the way she was doing now. She had somehow heaved on a maternity girdle which she noted had come from Paris along with the other silk underwear she now wore, then began the superhuman effort of getting her stockings on and connected to the suspenders which hung down waiting to receive them. Taking one of them gently in her hand, she sat on the edge of the bed and managed to get her foot into it, before throwing herself back onto the mattress and pulling the stocking up.

'Kuryakin, you have no idea' she said to herself, chuckling a little at the memory of Misha helping her with a similar operation when she was pregnant with the twins. Sadly, she thought, her beloved husband had never been there in the final stages of any of her pregnancies, had only rubbed her back a few times when they lay together years before in another place, both captives of the man she now planned to murder in cold blood.

As Therese fumbled for the suspenders she heard the unmistakeable sound of the door opening. She knew it wasn't Brent Martine, who had made a great show of both knocking and announcing himself through the door before she opened it to him. As she struggled to her feet, the stocking dropping to the ground, she came face to face with Anya's husband, a man she had seen entering Hoang's house from her bedroom window and whom her fiancé had told her was now in the employ of THRUSH.

They stared at each other for a few moments, Therese taking the time to calm herself and think why this man should have gained entry so easily.

'Your fiancé suggested we might get together before the party' he began. 'I took the liberty of putting the 'do not disturb' sign on the door.' Therese looked him up and down before casually stepping out of her stocking.

'But you're disturbing me' she said slowly, turning her back on him and walking towards the open window.

He came up behind her rapidly, grabbing her and twisting her round into a suffocating clasp, her abdomen rammed up against him as he began to pull her towards his open mouth. As he kissed her, she could feel a hard object in his trouser pocket, pressing into her as he continued to explore her neck and her breasts, his arm still holding her in a vice like grip.

Eventually, he tired slightly, and released his grip a little, wiping the lipstick from his mouth before beginning to manipulate her breasts with his hand.

'Stop.' She shook her head slightly before giving him a lascivious stare and then pushing him hard with her arms. 'I said stop. Whatever you have in your pocket is getting in the way of my enjoyment' she murmured, keeping her eyes fully focused on his rather astonished ones. He hesitated for a moment, before withdrawing a slim metal cylinder from his trousers.

Looking at it lying on his hand it seemed an innocent thing, a bit like the cigar container she'd seen her father buy occasionally when she was a child. She had the immediate, uncomfortable feeling that this object contained something far more unpleasant than a large Cuban cigar. He looked at it before replying,

'This little mechanism here arms the device. Just press this, and a lethal dose of Atropine ensures that the recipient's arteries are paralysed long enough to ensure certain death, but not long enough to show any evidence that it was anything other than a severe, catastrophic heart attack.'

'Oh, how divine' she said, stroking it. 'I thought it might do something rather unpleasant, seeing that you're carrying it, Sergei.' Arshavin stared at her again, slightly wrong-footed by her apparent lack of fear.

'I have a proposition for you Summer' he said, dropping the cylinder onto the bed and then pulling up Tess's slip, as he began to undo his trouser zip. She grabbed his arm suddenly, holding it down between them.

'If you want to enjoy me, _tovarisch_, then I'll need to hear your proposition first' she said, leaning forward until her face was almost touching his, and then pulling herself free. Leaving him standing there, she walked over to the table and dragged out an ornate French chair, before signalling to him slowly with her finger.

'You have to understand one thing' she said, pouting her lips very slightly.

'And what is that?' Arshavin said, as he walked slowly across, aware that he had left the cylinder, but unable to resist the addiction of the woman facing him behind the chair. As he drew close, Therese forced him to sit down, before coming round and sitting astride him, her hands pulling his shirt from his trousers as she leaned forward into Arshavin's face. 'I don't mess up my hair with any sordid groping on the bed, OK? I'm sure you can perform_ really_ well like this.'

He began to breathe more rapidly, Therese feeling his erection as she kissed him lightly before leaning back again and grabbing his tie.

'Come on now, _comrade, _she breathed. 'Give.'

'I can't . . not now . .'

'Oh I think you can, and you will, otherwise Summer might just have to teach you a little lesson about greedy little Russians who ask for too much too soon.' Arshavin's back was facing the door, so Therese had a perfect view of it opening to reveal her husband standing there. She brushed her finger to her lips before grabbing Arshavin's penis and squeezing it hard. The Russian under her grunted loudly, before saying with difficulty,

'Alright! I want you to kill him, kill Hoang for me. I want you Summer, and I can give you what that creature never can. If you kill him you can return to Moscow with me, we can have a life together. I will be rewarded for the removal of an enemy of the Soviet State, and once I have the information about the drugs, it will earn me a place in the higher echelons . . .

'Oh give it a rest, Arshavin. The likelihood of your masters in the Thirteenth Department giving you anything other than a trip to the nearest gulag for your pains is about the same as this wig sprouting hair.'

Therese was nearly thrown to the ground as Arshavin leapt out of the chair, managing to save herself by grabbing the table by her side. She stood up and directed her eyes to the bed, Illya taking in the cylinder nestling in the remaining silk stocking. Arshavin gaped at the figure standing in front of the door, his gun drawn, before a slow smile of recognition slid across his face.

'Illya Nikovetch; your disguise is impressive. It's a shame that you're just too late to do anything to help your wife, isn't it? As you can see, she's turned into a rather more interesting woman than the little housewife you rutted with in New York.' Before Illya could move, he had grabbed Therese and was stroking her neck with a knife. They stood there for a few moments before she said slowly,

'Put the gun down whoever you are and kick it over here. Much as I love the thrill of the blade on my neck, I'm finding this position is a little uncomfortable, darling.' She managed to rub herself against Arshavin, as Illya slowly lowered his gun and kicked it towards her, raising his hands and putting them gently on his head.

Therese bent forward as quickly as she could and grabbed the gun, before wandering over to the bed and picking up the cylinder.

'Now darling, what you would prefer? Shall I shoot him; a little noisy and lots of mess all over the place, or shall I use this? After all, _Seryozha_, I could use the practice to make sure I score a bullseye on the main target.' She licked her lips slightly and then stood there, the weapons waiting in both hands. Arshavin came over and stroked her belly, glancing at Illya before putting his hand between her legs.

'The cylinder is more feminine I think, and so discreet. When they find poor Professor Henderson, he will have died from a massive heart attack and there will be no trace whatsoever of the massive dose of Atropine that is just about to enter his bloodstream. Now, take a good deep breath in, Mr Kuryakin, and it will all be over in . . . .' he looked at his watch, 'about one and a half minutes'.

xxxxxxxx

Napoleon ran up the stairs lightly, throwing a few compliments in the direction of a couple of clients he'd seen that morning on the way. Mitzi was waiting in the room, a scared look replacing the chattering amiability of Cindy Henderson.

'He's gone to her room' she said quickly. 'He's taken his gun and some little gadget to deal with the door I think.' Napoleon nodded.

'Listen. Do not answer the door unless you hear this code.' He knocked on the table, Cindy's eyes closing as she memorised the pattern.

Leaving the room he took the stairs up to the next floor where he knew the suite Therese was occupying was situated, at the opposite end of the corridor to that of Illya and Mitzi. As he came up the staircase he was aware of someone following him up. Glancing behind, he could just see one of the Hoang personal guards, a tall swarthy looking man with a shaved head and the number 16 on his jacket collar. Napoleon climbed a few more steps and then stopped at the top, bending down to tie the lace of his shoe as the man approached.

As the man went to pass him, Napoleon suddenly straightened, barging into the other man and contriving to send his own glasses spinning across the corridor carpet.

'Oh my God, excuse me! I was too busy tying my laces to see you there!' he gushed, the guard glaring at him before glancing up and down the corridor. Napoleon grabbed him by the arm. 'I can see that you're in a hurry, _big boy_, but would you mind seeing if you can find my glasses? I'm totally blind without them.' He smiled his most winsome smile, blinking his eyes at the guard, who immediately removed his hand from his arm as if something rather distasteful had just landed on it. As he knelt down, Napoleon chopped his neck, the taller man felled immediately, and permanently by the blow.

It was Napoleon's turn to glance down the corridor now, before opening a door almost immediately opposite the staircase. The room was lined with a series of shelves stacked high with linen, but with a conveniently large space in which to store one dead guard. Napoleon dragged him in, and then closed the door, sealing it with an automatic locking device he extracted from his watch. Adjusting his glasses, he continued to saunter down the corridor until the door opening at the end encouraged him to break into a run.

'Shut the door quickly.' Illya was standing with Tess in his arms, the other Russian, Arshavin, lying on his back splayed out on the bed. Napoleon could see immediately that no shot had been fired. Arshavin's face stared up blankly at the ceiling, small drops of a liquid still drying on the pale skin surrounding the staring eyes. A silver cylinder lay discarded by his side.

'Is that what I think it is?' Napoleon said, as Tess straightened. She looked a pale version of her normal self, and there were signs that she had been sick on the sides of her mouth. He went up to her and put his arm round her shoulders.

'Alright?' She nodded, before going into the bathroom, the sound of water running before she returned and started to take the dress down from the wardrobe door.

'I'll explain what happened later' Illya said suddenly. 'Therese has a plan which considering what has happened, I think we should follow.'

'Um fine; but there's the small problem of a dead guard down the corridor to factor in as well.' Tess turned; her face calmer than minutes before but still like marble as she looked first at the man on the bed and then back at Napoleon.

'I killed him; Arshavin' she said. 'I didn't want to, but he. . Illya . . I had to.' She shook her head and then grabbing the dress, walked into the sitting room adjoining the bedroom and shut the door.

Illya watched her go, a look of genuine pain etched across the unfamiliar features of his face.

'She was brave' he said simply, before picking up his gun and re-holstering it in his jacket. 'Hoang must have given him permission to virtually rape her, but she managed somehow to turn it round so much so that he really thought she was going to kill me. He never realised that she was still Tess' he said, staring at Arshavin.

'I hate to rush you, but what's the plan?' Napoleon said, as Illya re-focused.

'Tess thinks that if Hoang knows for sure that she killed Arshavin it will convince him to keep her alive .'

'Like the black swan with the sorcerer' Napoleon said bitterly.

'Exactly. We'll have to get rid of the guard before tomorrow morning. In fact, Napoleon, you will have to get rid of the guard. You can get Steve to help you, while I plant the explosives. And another thing; did you notice who else was missing downstairs?' There was a moment's silence before Napoleon replied.

'Pascale.'

'Not only Pascale, but Anya as well' Illya replied, glancing at the door. 'When you've disposed of your guard, I would be very grateful if you would go down and see what's happened to them. I can keep an eye on Mata Hari here' he said, nodding in the direction of the door, 'and then I'll lay the explosives after I've decided to have an early night. If all goes well, Mitzi and I will meet you at say, 0500 hours?' Illya touched his face before continuing, 'you know, this stuff starts to break down a little after a couple of days so we need a touch up, remember? And besides, if I don't take this wig off soon, people will think I'm suffering from something unpleasant.' Napoleon frowned, a smile lighting up his face as Therese opened the door. Illya glanced across at her, then went over and held her very gently for a few moments before turning to Napoleon.

'You look wonderful' Napoleon said, eliciting a lovely smile from Therese.

'Pick up the phone when we're gone and get Hoang up here' Illya said, coming towards her and kissing her. I'm sure he'll be wondering what's happened. I'll go and pick up Cindy and see you down there.'

Therese watched them both leave the room before turning to the phone. She forced herself to look at the dead man, knowing that the continuance of this ghastly charade could ensure not only her own survival but that of those she held most dear. As she heard Hoang's voice, Therese closed her eyes.

'Darling, perhaps you could send one of your nice little men up here to collect that rather hot-blooded Russian friend of yours from my room, except that I'm afraid he's rather cold-blooded now, if you take my meaning.'

CHAPTER THIRTY

The party was in full swing as Napoleon slipped back through the French window and, after collecting and disposing of his second drink of the evening, slipped away along the hedge towards his own cottage. As he stood under the shower, feeling the false skin ooze away under his fingers to join the blond dye in the drain, he reflected on the wisdom of letting Kuryakin into what Hoang had apparently called 'the Heaven and Hell chamber' leading to the laboratories. He could see the logic and the necessity of them splitting up, but the uncertainty of what exactly was in that underground cavern concerned him, let alone the fact that Tess would be left alone to fend for herself again.

Coming out of the shower he looked at himself in the mirror as he dressed in the dark clothes his partner felt so comfortable in, wondering if he had been right to come here first before going to Anya. If he was wrong and there was some innocent explanation for Pascale's absence, it would be impossible for him to return to the party that evening. As he fitted his holster on his shoulders, something within him told him that knowing Hoang, there could be nothing innocent in their absence.

Thankfully, it was quite dark now, a row of twinkling lights competing with those above to provide light along the paths of the estate. Napoleon walked swiftly up the path which bordered the spa and the cottages where most of the staff working there lived, smiling grimly at the now deserted very English putting green and croquet lawn pristine before the dark hexagonal block casting a shadow over them. He looked up at the third floor, dark, except for some imperceptible light coming from one part where he presumed the patients of Erik Funk and his colleagues must lie. Below, an almost total darkness eclipsed the other floors, apart from a faint blinking light indicating the main lift and just behind it, an emergency staircase.

He skirted the main road that he had seen Illya and Mitzi arrive by what seemed like weeks before, keeping behind a curving hedge of hibiscus until he reached the cottage nearest to Hoang's house, his heart already perturbed by the total absence of light from the building. The hedge at this point gave him cover from the road, spreading upwards in showers of exquisite red flowers, darkened by the night into a deep maroon above his head. As he stood briefly contemplating the cottage he was aware of others in close proximity, the crunch of feet, and then silence before a click and the immediately recognisable sound of a short-wave radio.

'Nineteen to Five; report, over.'

'Five to Nineteen. Subjects delivered to terminal, over. Executive action in process of being applied to female adult, over. Female children sedated and prepared for transit, over and out.'

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment, the import of the words distilling in his mind. It was blindingly obvious who the unseen guards were referring to, but with a sinking feeling, Napoleon realised that, like the professional he was, the man known as Five had given no indication of whether he stood by a dock or was at the airport, both on different parts of the island, and both some distance away from where he stood now. Illya had not been the only person who joked about Solo's luck, in fact he had said on more than one occasion that he had come to depend upon it when all else failed. Napoleon stared again at the house he now knew was empty and wondered if this was the moment when luck just wasn't going to be enough. He looked down at his boots, and cursed himself for changing when it now appeared the only good he could do was back at the party, where he had left his partner and Therese exposed to more than a few people of evil intent.

There was a sudden crunch of feet as the guard moved away, suddenly silenced by the sound of another voice, this time rather less formal than the last one.

'I thought you were assigned to the party.' Napoleon froze as the smell of cigarette smoke wafted gently through the hedge towards him.

'I was. Sixteen was sent up to Miss Day; he didn't come back.' The other guard whistled between his teeth as Napoleon winced.

'It appears Captain Arshavin behaved inappropriately, and she gave him a taste of his own medicine' the second guard continued. Mr Hoang thinks he could have been liquidated by another KGB officer who thought he'd overstepped the mark; you know how they like to work in combat groups.'

'Indeed. '_Boyeraya gruppa'_.

Napoleon frowned at the conversation. The average THRUSH guard had the intelligence of a fourth grader and the maturity to match it. These men sounded and acted very differently, more like agents themselves than guards. There were a few moments companionable silence between the men before Napoleon saw two cigarette butts thrown down and two feet stamp them into the ground. He sighed inwardly as the two sets of feet turned from each other.

'Oh, please will you inform Mr Hoang that Five will be returning from the airport at twenty three hundred forty five after the flight has cleared Bermudian air space.'

Not waiting to hear the end of the conversation, Napoleon moved away rapidly along the hedge, before running across the lawn in front of Anya's cottage and into the shadows of the large covered terrace on one side. He had already seen the Vespa scooter parked there, a form of transport universal in Bermuda, where the restrictions on car ownership gave birth to armadas of natives and tourists flooding the roads with them. He rammed the crash helmet onto his head and slipped down the visor before heaving the Vespa round, wheeling it silently down the path until he had cleared at least a fair distance from where he hoped the guards had gone. He kick started the engine and roared onto the main road, the putting green flashing by in a blur of dark green as the bend straightened towards the main gate.

Braking slightly, Napoleon noted with a slight smile that the gate was beginning to open as a very large white Mercedes attempted to pass through. The scream of the female passenger as he accelerated past her was almost momentary, her mouth a red gash of lipstick as he forced the Vespa through the tiny gap left by the partially opened gates. Glancing at his watch, he realised that he had less than two hours to reach the airport and find Anya and the children before they disappeared into a future he couldn't even bear to contemplate.

xxxxxxxxx

With horror, Illya realised that it was going to be almost impossible to merge with the other guests without colliding into Erik Funk, now arm in arm with Yvonne Shumway and standing directly in front of the entrance doors to the room. He noticed Yvonne stare at Mitzi for a moment before Funk began talking in the ingratiating way Illya found almost intolerable to listen to.

'Hi there! I'm Erik, this is Yvonne and you are . . .?'

'Cindy and Roger Henderson' Mitzi squeaked enthusiastically, staring round her. 'Oh gee, Rog, is that _her_?' Illya was relieved to escape the rather penetrating stare Funk was giving him, turning his back on the plastic surgeon as Therese swept in on the arm of Clark Hoang. As she passed him, he felt the momentary touch of her fingers on his hand; then she had passed by, a knot of THRUSH Central men and women closing round her until all he could see was her astonishing, elaborate hairstyle towering over their heads. He sighed, catching sight of Edvard Zoltan, now engaged in conversation with a sultry looking Mexican woman before he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'Quite a girl, don't you think, if you go for girls; which you obviously do, Roger.' Funk's leering smile nauseated Illya; his skin crawled at the memory of the last time they had met, and of the unbearable suffering the man must have caused to perfect the surgery he had performed on Misha.

'If you say so, Doctor. I'm sorry, I've just seen someone I must speak to before tomorrow.' He shook hands with Funk and then gathering up Mitzi, moved away across the room towards the terrace.

'You know, I'm sure I know that woman' Yvonne Shumway said, as Funk watched the Hendersons heading for the terrace. Funk looked down at his hands, then up again.

'You probably do, dear. She almost certainly works for UNCLE if that is who I think it is with her.' Yvonne, who had been staring at the couple as they passed through the French windows looked round startled, but Funk had disappeared.

xxxxxxx

Illya looked at his watch. He had allowed Mitzi to drag him round the room at a pace which enabled him to track his wife's movements and whereabouts adequately, but it was obvious as the evening wore on she was looking increasingly exhausted, her expression and the darkening shadows round her eyes telling him that she needed to escape and rest. Finally, he saw her whisper something in Clark Hoang's ear, before another of his personal guards bearing the number Twenty Eight, appeared and led her away. There was no way of knowing yet whether the death of Arshavin had altered his intentions, but Illya didn't intend him to have any intentions towards his wife for much longer, good or bad.

Pleading the necessity to read some vital piece of research before the next day, he left Mitzi entertaining a group of similar but less attractive partners of lesser THRUSH personnel, and returned to his room, but not before taking one last look at the assembled group, and noting the absence of both Funk and Clark Hoang with slight anxiety. He climbed the stairs with an amble approximating to tiredness, before entering his room and undressing, throwing the evening wear on the floor before, with a slight feeling of guilt, picking them up and laying them neatly on a chair.

For what he hoped was not the last time, he surveyed Professor Henderson in the mirror of the bathroom, before carefully removing the wig and giving his head a thoroughly enjoyable scratch. Going back into the bedroom he retrieved the soap bar from his bedside table, before retreating back to the bathroom and turning on the shower full blast.

Illya loved using the element of disguise in his work, but it was always a pleasure to return to his own face as he thought of it. He rubbed the towel over his now much less greasy hair, grimacing slightly at its length before walking back into the bedroom and pulling out one of the cases where his own clothes had been hidden in a secret compartment. The explosive for the job he hoped to carry out that night lay secured safely under the thin black turtle neck and trousers, together with a radio controlled device for activation and detonation.

There was a gentle, coded knock at the door before Mitzi swept in, giving him no time to retrieve his underwear, a fact that obviously did not escape her notice.

'Sorry, your underwear's in the pink suitcase_ liebling'_ she cooed provocatively, grinning as the Russian with teeth gritted strode off towards the wardrobe.

'You did that on purpose' he muttered from inside the wardrobe door as Mitzi manoeuvred herself for a better view.

'Did what, darling?' she laughed, throwing down her bag and then picking up his discarded clothes. 'I can see that Theresa has been teaching you to be a good husband' she said, folding them and returning them to the wardrobe as he grabbed the turtle neck and yanked it over his head.

'Yes, and I'm going to have a hard time of it if you don't keep your mouth closed about all this' he said exasperatingly, pulling on his trousers, and then the holster that lay with the explosives and his gun on the bed.

'Nonsense, Illyusha!' Mitzi said, coming and sitting on the bed. 'Theresa is one of the least jealous and sweetest women I know. After all, darling, she has to put up with you and your ways, _nicht wahr_?

'Hm. I suppose so.' He took the communicator Mitzi had removed from his dinner jacket and opened it to the channel he was using with Napoleon. After a few minutes silence, he closed it, sliding it back into his trouser pocket with a sigh.

'Perhaps he is doing something and can't speak to you' Mitzi offered diplomatically, as Illya loaded the explosive into a small rucksack.

'Perhaps. I'll try later.' He sat on the bed next to Mitzi and slid on his shoes and socks before turning to her.

'Now remember. Put the 'do not disturb' sign on the door and do not under any circumstances answer or open the door unless it's to the code, alright? I'm going out shortly, and I'll be back in time for us to meet Napoleon at five o'clock, so you can work on us before you go.' Mitzi gazed at him, loving the tender look in his beautiful eyes she had always seen right from when she first met him.

'Be safe, darling' she whispered. 'Come back to me, OK?' He smiled.

'I fully intend to.'

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

Napoleon slid the visor of the helmet up, giving him access to the more cooling winds generated by his speed along the road. He slowed a little, not wanting to risk being held up by well-meaning policemen wishing to prevent the deaths of innocent tourists on their beautiful island. Fortunately, the time of day meant that traffic was light, although at times Napoleon wished for more daylight to guide him along some of the more winding and dangerous parts of the road leading to the airport. There was only one route, taking him past the major resort beaches, their late night revellers lit up startlingly by his headlight as he ploughed on past them.

The road quietened a little for several miles as he sped on, remembering the landmarks and junctions that would lead eventually to the airport. Leaving the road that ran along the southern coast, he tracked north, noticing as he slowed to allow a couple of more uncertain riders to turn left at a T-Junction, that the road they were taking led directly to the part of Bermuda where the Robinsons lived. The road climbed a little; taking him round the large inner expanse of Harrington Sound until eventually he reached the causeway linking the other islands to the one upon which the airport was sited.

The long low building of the arrivals terminal was quiet, larger aircraft parked neatly in front of it waiting for the exodus of those leaving the island in the morning. Beyond them, the freight area was showing more activity, men in brown uniforms loading the FedEx aeroplane with the usual combination of packages. From his vantage point beside the perimeter fence, Napoleon could see under the wing tip of one of the freight planes, noting a small group of private aircraft including a jet with its steps down, a black jeep like vehicle parked at the side of it.

Leaving the Vespa by the side of the road, he withdrew a small pair of bolt cutters from the backpack he had slung on before he left the cottage. The chain link fence was relatively unguarded, the darkness of the terminal assisting him with making a hole big enough to crawl through and move swiftly past the silent monsters on the tarmac and on towards the other end of the airfield. Fortunately, the workers on the two freight planes were far too involved in their work to notice him, as Solo slipped past and jogged towards the cluster of small private aircraft at the far end of the tarmac.

The jet was of the executive variety, a dark blue flash ribboning the side of its body and continuing up to the tail, where the now familiar J logo stood out in a deep gold colour on the tail wing. Napoleon guessed that the cargo, human or otherwise, had already been loaded, the small jet engines at the rear beginning to turn as he ran silently round the smaller light aircraft and pausing at the one nearest the jet, surveyed the scene.

The jeep stood silently by the wingtip nearest him, the interior clearly empty. It was a relatively short distance to the vehicle, but before he could move, someone appeared at the top of the steps.

'Prepare for take-off. I need to confirm the change of plan with control.'

The guard, obviously number Five, was similar in build to his partner, only much darker, with the same shaved head Solo remembered from the man he had killed earlier in the hotel. He turned away from the lit up interior of the plane and began to descend the short flight of steps, walking over to the Jeep and opening the door. Inside, on the dashboard a radio was mounted, the guard speaking into it as he sat on the edge of the seat, the door swung open at his side. Napoleon crept forward, and flattened himself at the side of the vehicle while the guard communicated with the same colleague he had spoken to earlier in the evening at the Janus resort.

'Permission granted to accompany the flight to Cluj airfield, and then by road to Floreşti School' he heard the man known as 'Nineteen' say, before Five ended the communication and placing the receiver back in its cradle, turned enough for Napoleon to put a neat bullet between his eyes. He slumped back heavily onto the seat before Napoleon shoved his legs inside and slammed the door shut before walking quickly back to the plane.

Re-loading his gun with darts, he crouched down underneath the fuselage. A woman's voice shouted out of the aircraft several times, before a pair of long slender legs began to gingerly descend the steps. Taking out his gun, Napoleon waited yet again for her to reach the tarmac, before reaching out and placing the gun at her head.

'Now we're going back up and you're going to introduce me to your friend in the cockpit' he said slowly, his arm firmly controlling her movement.

With the stewardess walking rigidly in front of him, they climbed back up the steps until they were in the doorway of the plane. Napoleon could see that the pilot had seated himself again, waiting for her to return before taking off. To their right, several seats had been converted to beds, upon which the still figures of the two girls lay, their faces pale and strained in the dimmed lighting of the cabin. Despite her unnatural, tranquilised state, Tasiya's arms lay thrown above her head in unconscious imitation of her father's favourite sleeping position.

'Did you tell him to hurry the damn well . . .' The pilot froze in the twisted position he had assumed, before standing up rapidly and raising his hands. 'We don't want any trouble' he said hoarsely, his eyes flickering rapidly between Napoleon and the stewardess. They were both dressed in the navy and gold 'J' uniform he'd seen throughout the Janus resort. Napoleon concluded that, like the hotel staff they were just employees, rather than the sinister guards with their definite aura of unswerving commitment to the Hoang cause.

'That suits me fine' Napoleon said, checking out the interior and feeling relatively confident that they were the only occupants. 'You have some relations of mine on board who've changed their mind about the trip' he said slowly. 'If you wouldn't mind, I'd like them back.'

'Where's Five?' the pilot asked, still rooted to the spot.

'He's taking a nap, of the permanent variety' Napoleon said, watching the man's face show a strange mixture of shock and relief at the news. He released the stewardess into the arms of the pilot, the two of them standing there facing him woodenly in the cockpit doorway.

'Now, I can see the young ladies, but I'm having difficulty in locating their nanny' Napoleon continued, 'so, if you wouldn't mind?' He waved his gun in their direction and stood back a little as they looked at each other nervously, the stewardess, a small brunette with rather full red lips beginning to breathe rather heavily.

'What nanny?' she said anxiously looking at the pilot and then back at Solo. There was a slight hiatus while Napoleon waited for the pilot to work out the answer to the stewardess's question.

'She's below' he said, looking at the floor. I didn't realise it was a . . . I mean it was just a crate' he said, looking uneasily at Napoleon's gun. 'It's easier to get it out from outside.' Napoleon frowned.

'You mean she was going to travel down there all the way to Romania?' he replied, stepping back to allow the pilot to get to the door.

'Er, not exactly' he replied nervously. A layer of sweat seemed to break out over his face as he continued, rather frantically, 'it wasn't our idea, Debbie's and mine; we're just here to operate the service. The girls were already asleep when they arrived, and then they loaded the crate on afterwards. The instructions were to release it over the Atlantic on the way over. When I found out there was a . . . well, I wasn't very happy, see, so that Five guy insisted on coming along to make sure I didn't, well . . .'

'Get cold feet?' Napoleon shook his head slightly and then motioned the pilot forward. He grabbed the stewardess's arm and pushed her after the retreating pilot, before jumping the few steps to the ground after them.

The cargo hold was reached by a long narrow door underneath the body of the aeroplane, which when opened hung down to reveal a long, and disturbingly silent wooden crate stored next to the space reserved for the plane's undercarriage. The pilot glanced behind him, the barrel of Napoleon's gun persuading him that it would be sensible to move the crate towards the opening. As he climbed into the hold, the stewardess wrenched herself free of Solo's hand and began to run towards the terminal. Napoleon sighed and fired a dart, the girl freezing for a moment, before sinking clumsily to the tarmac.

'Christ, you haven't . . .'

'No, I haven't, but I might change my mind if you don't hurry up' Napoleon replied before shouldering his gun and helping the pilot with the crate. Apart from its weight and construction, there was a feeling of death about the slatted coffin like box that slid out of the hold into Napoleon's hands. The two men heaved it to the ground, before Napoleon removed a small jemmy from his bag and began to rip up the slats on the top.

Anya's body had been entirely cocooned by a kind of duct tape, only the end of her nose free to breathe in whatever limited air remained in the cargo hold. Napoleon opened a small knife and began to cut the tape carefully, pulling it back gently from her face as the pilot stood watching in frozen shock, before shaking himself into helping Napoleon rip the sticky strips from Anya's still form.

She lay immobile for a few moments before, with a shuddering sigh, she opened her eyes and breathed in deeply, running her tongue along her lips several times as she gazed steadily at the two men. Before Napoleon could stop him, the pilot ran up the steps, returning moments later with a wet cloth which he wiped across her face, her lips sucking silently at it as it passed over them. Napoleon pushed his arms round her and lifted up her body, carrying her onto the aircraft and laying her down gently on another bed facing the two sleeping children.

'Bastards' the pilot said, continuing to mechanically remove the remaining duct tape.

Napoleon took out his communicator and set it to the channel which Illya and he were using on the island. There was a momentary pause before a low continuous bleep sounded. Anya turned her head slightly, looking at him seriously.

'Illyusha?' she whispered hoarsely.

'It should be' Napoleon replied, stroking the side of her face, before turning away, his face hidden from her gaze.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

The smooth green of the croquet lawn provided a clear view of the lift shaft, the lights by its doors twinkling slightly every time a small procession of men and women were disgorged from its steel interior and left the building. Illya trained his binoculars on the outer door of the Spa, watching them leave and the door swinging shut behind them with a slight clang of thick plate glass on steel. He already had Napoleon's code and card to enter the building, which, like Cinderella at the ball, he knew changed at midnight each day. Glancing at his watch, he withdrew his communicator and tried Napoleon again, but whatever was happening, Napoleon was not able to tell him. He was slightly reassured, however by the series of intermittent bleeps, telling him that his partner's communicator was still working, but just not being answered.

Everyone who left the Spa was wearing some kind of white coat he noticed, which some discarded into a large soft laundry bag lurking just behind the lift shaft. He recognised, with a slight shudder, that a few wore nurses' uniform, the women unpinning their caps and tossing them into the bag, before continuing the conversation and their journey out of the building. Others, mainly men but a few women too, wore lab coats similar to his own back at HQ, the only difference being that some had stethoscopes wrapped round their necks which they untwined as they threw their white coats into the waiting skip.

Illya waited until the lift lights returned to normal before walking hurriedly across the shadowy lawn and into the Spa. The comparative darkness of the building enabled him to see if anybody was watching him as he had watched the others, but luckily, both the lift and the area outside appeared deserted for the moment. He grabbed a few lab coats until he found one that approximated his size, the thing giving him a strangely comforting feeling as he slid it over his otherwise black clothes. He found it hard to believe that he would be able to gain access to the labs this easily at this time of night, but shrugging his shoulders he consulted the row of buttons on the outside of the lift.

On his last visit, he had been taken down to the labs via the entrance in the main building, beyond the Board Room where he knew the meeting of THRUSH Central members would take place in a few hours' time. He remembered gazing at the expanse of water and tropical vegetation maintained by a complicated array of lights and heating systems, the aerial bridge spanning the space and linking the Spa at the far end with the laboratories, reached by a kind of T-Junction in the middle of the uncannily calm water. The feeling that something was watching them was vivid both then and now; the water, so still in places, having a kind of pulse in others which had disturbed him as he had hurried across.

Logically, he thought, the button below the one lit up now must be the one, as he knew there was no floor between himself and the laboratories underneath him. There were three other buttons, the top one leading to the place he least wanted to visit. As he went to press the lowest button, he saw the light go out and the lift begin to move, going down to where the lowest button was now flashing. Illya sighed, feeling inside his trousers for his glasses. He had considered trying the contact lenses that he had worn in Norway again, but their tendency to make his eyes sore made him opt for the rimless spectacles Pascale had chosen for him in the opticians, and which Tess had called his 'boffin' glasses.

Thinking of her caused him to turn from the lift and gaze out of the Spa towards Hoang's house, the chimneys just visible in the distance. He began to consider the various options for escape open to them. She was so much an integral part of Hoang's plan now, that her sudden absence would alert him immediately that something was wrong and the explosives would be discovered. Otherwise he had the option to blow up the place right now, but the repercussions of that could be catastrophic and there was no guarantee that he or Napoleon could get to her in time. He realised that whatever happened, the option of leaving Hoang alive was not one which could be contemplated, whoever was ultimately responsible for his death.

The soft thump of the lift arriving and the sound of its doors opening diverted him from any further contemplation of the future. A girl stood there, the collar of her lab coat turned up carelessly as she stepped out. She reminded him of a lot of girls he'd worked with at Cambridge; clever women with a kind of myopic view of the world around them as they rigorously pushed back the frontiers of science in their own field. Her hair was long like Tess's, but frizzy rather than curly, and of an extremely dark shade of brown bordering on black. It was tied into a ponytail low on her neck and looked distinctly as if it needed to be washed soon. She stared up at him through thick rimmed black glasses, her eyes behind them also brown, of a tone less exciting than his wife's glorious topaz coloured ones. Under the lab coat she was wearing a thin and rather creased cotton dress which had seen better days, and which, by the standard of what Illya had witnessed on the streets of New York and London, was frumpily long. As she stepped into the foyer she tipped back her head and uttered the one word 'damn' in a rather definite English accent, before her face lit up at the sight of Illya standing in front of her.

'Oh, thank _God_' she said grabbing him by the arm and simultaneously poking at the lowest button on the lift before tutting slightly at the lift inconveniently sending itself to the third floor. She stabbed at the button a few times before turning back to Illya.

'This is my first day and I've left the keys to my cottage down in the labs' she said, raising her eyebrows at him. 'It's pitch dark down there, I haven't a clue how you get the lights on and I feel a teensy bit nervous near all that water.' She stared at him, her expression changing a little as she took him in.

'Are you new here? I can't say I remember you, and I think I probably would . . . remember you, that is' she continued, smiling a little nervously.

'Er, yes, I'm quite new here too. Um, Henry Sackville-West; but you can call me Harry if you like' he said, in his best Public School accent; 'everyone does.' The lift purred to a halt and opened; the two of them entering and the girl, after giving him another long stare, turning and stabbing the button again.

'What, the Kentish Sackville-Wests?' she said, the two of them now facing each other across the lift.

'Of course' Illya replied, remembering now where he'd seen the name before on a book about English gardens Tess had shown him.

'Good Lord' she said, snorting slightly. 'I mean, I hope you don't mind me saying, but they were all a bit, _odd_' don't you think?' in that kind of upper class rude way some of the English had when speaking of others. Oh, by the way, I'm Petula' she said rather shyly, self-consciously smoothing her dress.

'Clark?' Illya replied, smiling. He leaned back against the wall of the lift and removed his glasses before suddenly beginning to sing, his voice echoing round the metal walls of the lift as they plunged down.

_Don't sleep in the subway darlin,_

_Don't stand in the pouring rain_

_Don't sleep in the subway darlin,_

_The night is long; forget your foolish pride,_

_Nothing's wrong, now you're beside me again._

As the doors opened Petula continued to stand in the lift, her mouth slightly gaping.

'Oh gosh, that was lovely' she murmured, as he held out his hand for her.

'My twin brother's a big fan' Illya replied, patting his trouser pocket for a small torch, which he turned on, illuminating the beginning of the platform, the slight swish of the water reminding them of what lay in the darkness.

'You mean there's another one just like you?' Petula gasped as they walked forward, Illya holding her hand firmly as they began to cross the bridge to the labs.

Her hand held his in a vice-like grip as they continued across, Illya aware of both the sounds below them as well as a series of little polite expressions of fear coming from Petula.

'Oh golly, this is horrible!' she said after something splashed below. 'Goodness knows why they had to build the thing; it certainly puts one off from nosing around after hours.' Luckily, it was a shorter walk from the Spa, and the door of the laboratories was soon illuminated by Illya's torch as Petula shuffled through the contents of her pocket for the laboratory pass card that Illya knew she had, pulling it out with a cry of 'there it is!' and immediately pressing it to the tiny blinking lights on the outside of the door.

There was a clunk as the door yielded to Illya's thrust.

'Do you know where you left it?' he said, lighting her up with his torch. She nodded vigorously, charging off at a fast pace considering how dark it was, until they found themselves in a deserted lab at the end of long corridor.

'Where do you work?' Petula said, picking up the keys which were lurking behind a bunsen burner on her bench. Illya gestured towards another lab next door to hers.

'Oh, in there' he said, peering round the room, trying to place himself in relation to the labs where he intended to place the explosives.

'What, in the sperm bank?' she exclaimed, blinking at him furiously. 'So you're a geneticist.' Illya nodded, his heart sinking a little at the thought of dredging up his rather rusty knowledge of genetics from the bottom drawer of his memory. Still, the information enabled him to orientate the labs in his mind ready for later, when he would return without her.

They were at the lift doors when he suddenly stopped, smacking his hand against his forehead and then searching frantically through the pockets of his lab coat.

'I don't believe it' he said, giving her one of his deepest despairing sighs.

'What?'

'Now I've gone and left my keys behind.' Petula gave a short gasp of horror, before staring back at the less than inviting darkness in front of her.

'Oh, for goodness sake, Harry, you're as bad as me!' she said, coming up closer and biffing him slightly on the chest, which he imagined was her way of showing him she was interested in him. She delved into her pocket again and held up the card to the labs. 'Look' she said, gazing at him, 'you go back and pick them up, and I'll . . . I'll wait for you at the top of the lift . . . if you like.'

Illya took the key, momentarily holding her hand before he released it.

'Um, I may be a short while; I'm a terrible scatter brain with things like that' he mumbled, picking up the rucksack he'd been carrying nonchalantly since he came in the building. 'I really need someone to look after me.' He felt a little guilty as he watched her ample bosom heave a little at his words, but without the card, entering the labs would be a much greater challenge, considering that Edvard Zoltan had made a great play of pointing out the fact that there were significant security measures in place to prevent such attacks.

She leaned forward towards him and gave him a demure peck on the cheek before hurriedly entering the lift and pressing the button to go up. Illya sighed again, hardly daring to think what Napoleon's comments would have been on his feeble attempts at seduction.

Removing his lab coat, he retraced his steps back to the lab, using the card to gain entry. Unsurprisingly, Petula's card only allowed her access to the communal areas and her own lab. Illya glanced up. Apart from a line of recessed lights running along the centre of the ceiling, he couldn't see any obvious cameras anywhere. Something about the lights bothered him, but he was loath to damage them and give away the fact that someone had been in the labs at night. He pressed himself against the walls as he moved silently to the labs he had targeted, opening the doors relatively easily and wiring up the explosives as he went.

Glancing at his watch he saw that midnight was approaching. It was useless to try Napoleon again from so far under the ground, but Pascale's disappearance was a worrying factor, and one that had drawn his partner away at a time when Illya could have done with him close by. He flipped the front of his watch up, setting the hidden dials beneath to a time the next day when he hoped they would be well clear of the place. The watch, a Rolex waterproof adapted by a colleague of his in UNCLE provided him with not only a very reliable way to tell the time even in water, but also the means of controlling explosions by setting and pressing the rotating dial on the edge of the clock face.

Shutting the last laboratory door and hoping that the occupants would not admit to anyone the next morning that they'd left it open all night, he retraced his steps as quickly as he could to the lift, stopping for a moment on the bridge to shine his torch into the dark void beneath him. For a split second the water heaved slightly, and he was certain he saw two hooded eyes in the blackness, before the water swallowed them back into itself. Shuddering slightly, he ran lightly back and pressed the button for the ground floor.

The lift doors slid open easily, inviting him in. For some reason unbeknown to himself, Illya hesitated. Nothing had changed, there was no obvious difference in the lift inside or out, yet in some way he felt uneasy about entering the enclosed space again. He looked round, staring at the black abyss behind him. Apart from walking all the way back over the bridge to the main building, where he imagined the party was still going on, he reasoned that the lift was the safest option, and Petula might in fact make his exit from the building a little less obviously suspicious. He put on the lab coat, before taking his gun out of his rucksack and sticking it in the back of his trousers.

The lift began its ascent, rather faster than Illya had remembered it coming down. There was a slight click as it approached the ground floor, where to his horror, it continued upwards at an increasing speed, Illya following the lights as he grabbed his gun and pointed it towards the doors. As it reached the second floor it slowed. Illya jammed his hand on the button several times as it came to a halt. Sticking the gun back in his belt, he surveyed the trap door at the top of the box, sighing a little in frustration at the superhuman leap it would take to reach it.

'Napoleon, where are you when I need you' he muttered to himself, thinking of all the times he had stood on his partner's shoulders, or felt Napoleon's feet pressing into him as he manipulated the lift hatch open. He went towards the two main lift doors, searching in his bag for something which would help him prise them open. As he bent down something sweet filled his nostrils, giving him only enough time to stand slightly before he sank slowly back onto the floor of the lift, as, with a slight sigh, it continued its way to the third floor.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

The Jeep skidded slightly, the lights bringing the roadside calabash trees into sharp relief as Napoleon accelerated away from the causeway road towards Tucker's Town. On this road in particular he was conscious of the sea's dark lapping presence each side of the black tarmac as he drew nearer to the house, a more wooded area giving way to an broad expanse of manicured golf course and a series of very elegant and very expensive homes dotted between the tees at the edge of the grass. He glanced back momentarily at the still sleeping figures of the children in the back seat, thanking whatever deity might be listening for the mercy of their continuing unconscious state.

Anya sat rigidly in the seat beside him, occasionally pulling what remained of the tape from the parts of her body they had missed in their frantic rush to free her of her sticky bonds. They had left the pilot nursing the stewardess into consciousness inside the plane, Napoleon suggesting to them in very clear terms that they should disappear for a few days until the situation was resolved.

'I'll divert to Bucharest' the pilot had informed him as they were leaving. 'We can drop him over the ocean mid-flight and then make our own way back' he added, staring at the figure of the guard now lying at the back of the cabin. 'At least that will make them think things are A-OK for a while. Don't worry about us; they paid me well for this job and I took the precaution of taking it out in cash' he said, swivelling his head towards a rather bulky looking canvas holdall stowed on one of the seats.

The clubhouse of the Mid Ocean Golf Course came into view as Solo slowed the Jeep and then pulled into the drive of a large, typically Bermudian house on a promontory, which he guessed would give the owners a spectacular view of the Ocean in daylight. He could only hear the sea now, the occasional dull thudding and splashing of the waves as they hit the rock immediately below the house reminding him that the hurricane season was drawing near.

His communicator had started bleeping just as he brought the car to a halt outside the house. He had maintained radio silence since they had left, unable to risk the fact that he was not incarcerated in prison communicating itself to Hoang via someone at UNCLE, either intentionally or not. He twisted the receiver and then handed it to Anya.

'You speak; just in case' he said as she stared at the communicator.

'Is that the woodcutter?' a long desired voice spoke into the silence of the vehicle. Napoleon, with a smile, took the cylinder back from a now completely confused Anya.

'Is that Little Red Riding Hood?'

'Yes, chuck. Old Father Time sends you his regards and wonders how Hansel and Gretel are making out with the wicked witch.'

'Well, Gretel is putting on quite a show, but we're a little worried about the whereabouts of her blond companion.'

'And Vasilisa the Beautiful and her annoying little sister?' Napoleon smiled deeply as he looked over the back towards the slightly stirring girls. He remembered Illya reading the story to a transfixed Tasiya one winter's evening, the annoying little sister an addition to the story that Napoleon hadn't remembered from the original.

'They're safe now' he replied simply. He had been surprised that it was Jo talking to him, but now it seemed to make sense, bearing in mind the utmost secrecy which this mission was now plunged into.

'What happened to Lisa?' he said, opening the Jeep door a little and then standing outside it while Anya slid out the other side.

'Well most surprisingly, she was needed to oversee things in the Californian office for a couple of weeks' Jo replied, 'so I'm standing in. They seem to have accepted it, seeing that they all feel rather sorry for me, having a right _no-mark_ for a husband. On the other hand your late lamented partner has been canonised in his absence, by all those _divvies_ who five minutes ago were all for sending him back where he came from.' Napoleon groaned at the thought of what was being said and how many embarrassed faces there might be on their return. 'Still' Jo continued cheerfully, 'I have my visits to the prison to look forward to.'

'Ah yes, the prison situated rather attractively by the lake; quite a family unit as I understand it.' There was a pause before she said, in a different tone altogether,

'I miss you, darling. For God's sake sort it out there and get back here soon, right?' Napoleon glanced over at Anya. She had the back door of the jeep open, and was in the process of scooping up Tasiya from the back seat.

'I'll do my best. Tell Old Father Time that there are some interesting additions to the flock, which we'll do our best to round up before we leave. I think it may be best if the local police do the honours though.'

'I'll tell him. Napoleon, you're sure about _my_ annoying little sister?' Napoleon hesitated.,

'She's holding it together, the baby is fine, but don't expect her to be quite the same as before.' There was another short silence, where he could almost hear his wife's brain calculating the import of his words.

'What did she do? Please don't tell me she . . .'

'Look, I'll talk to you about it, I promise, but I need to go now. She's OK, better than all of us thought she would be. Perhaps we all underestimated her, don't you think?' he said, almost murmuring it to himself as he finished speaking.

'Perhaps' Jo said quietly.

The front door of the house was already open by the time he had finished speaking, a tall, statuesque woman filling the space, wearing a startling red silk dressing gown. She walked towards them slowly, going straight past Napoleon towards the open back door of the Jeep.

'So you're Nicky's partner' she said in a slow chocolaty voice. 'I can see who this is' she continued, smiling at Tasiya, but we haven't been introduced, hon' she said, fixing Anya with a dark, penetrating gaze.

'Lieutenant Colonel Anya Markova' Anya said sharply, straightening despite her bedraggled appearance and staring fixedly back at Allegra Robinson.

'Allegra is an old flame of Illya's, Anya' Napoleon said, watching the interaction of the two women with interest. Allegra began to smile, her teeth sparkling against her skin in the shadowy light cast from the doorway.

'Yeah and I don't _do_ all that stiff-assed Russian stuff, hon. It took me six months to break Nicky of all that so don't youse be starting it too, OK?' Napoleon forced down a smirk at the thought, before reaching into the jeep and gently lifting Pascale out of the car. Allegra, looked at both of the girls, a kind of caring frown on her face.

'They're his kids alright' she said softly, before turning and ushering them into the welcoming glow of the house behind them.

xxxxxxxx

He was floating, even though he could feel the slightly coarse clean texture of the sheet below him and the sense that below this, he was lying on something hard. His eyes remained shut; his brain apparently only wishing to focus on tactile sensations, and having no desire either to react or interact with them, but only to observe what they were, and then to accept them. Whatever was being done to him, not only was he powerless to prevent it, but was actually perfectly happy to let it happen.

He had come to this level of consciousness when he was aware of being turned over, the skin on his back feeling in some way different, but how, he had no clear understanding of, nor really cared. He gradually became aware of the sound of others in the room, as their voices increased and faded like someone turning the volume up and down. After an indeterminate time, he decided to lick his lips, this action being followed by something wet passing over them, drops falling into his mouth causing him to suck, then to lapse back into his former state of passivity.

There followed the curious sensation of something light but cold being spread across his body, starting with his face and neck. His nose twitched at the smell, his brain slowly wading through walls of mud to find the answer. All he could arrive at was the word 'clean'. It felt clean. Then after the clean cold light sensation, a hard scraping across the contours of his face, then his neck, his chest and on down his body and arms; his body quivering slightly as an unseen hand grasped his penis and the rasping sensation continued, down his legs until finally it finished, replaced by something altogether more softer being rubbed gently over him, and then the same clean rough texture extending over the top of his body this time.

Gradually, the wish to interact with his surroundings began to return, although he felt physically unable or even unwilling to attempt anything beyond thinking or opening his eyes. Finally, as he suggested to his hands that they might flex slightly, he felt them being dragged away from him, his legs similarly treated, then something stiff and hard encasing his ankles and wrists. He abandoned his extremities and fell to concentrating on his eyes, asking them to flutter a little. After a while he was rewarded with their opening very slowly to a world he struggled to even comprehend.

'Illyusha, wake up now, we have a lot to do. Your new employer wants you to be entirely clean before the final stage of your new life can begin.'

xxxxxxxxx

The air-conditioning unit in the bedroom gave a low roar of welcome as Napoleon gently laid Pascale on the bed nearest the window, the sheet folded back, a couple of dolls and a few books piled up on the table between the beds by some childish hands he imagined wanting to extend friendship to the two strangers. Allegra swept up silently behind him, waving him away towards the living room as she began to undress the girls, tucking up Tasiya in the sheet in a way that even made Napoleon feel somehow safe in this place.

'Talk to John' she murmured without turning, as she repeated her gentle routine with Pascale.

He found John Robinson, wearing a more conservative looking robe over his pyjamas, talking in deep quiet tones to Anya in the living room. Napoleon hardly dared to allow himself the comfort of sinking into the very large sofas facing each other across the room, the dark French windows beyond them not entirely shutting out the constant rhythmic action of the sea on the rocks immediately below the house.

'Coffee?' Robinson said, immediately offering him a cup before waiting for his answer. Napoleon sat down on the edge of the sofa next to Anya, the events of the day clearly apparent in her gaunt looking face and strained expression. He put down his coffee and took her hand, smiling confidently at her in spite of his own bad feelings about his partner.

'Well I guess you found the trumpeter across the turquoise sea and pink sands' he said. Anya smiled weakly, before leaning back and laying her head on the top of the soft cushions of the sofa.

'Yes; but not without your help, Napoleon. Thank you' she replied, turning her head towards him, a look of utter weariness weighing down her eyelids until by sheer willpower she forced them upwards again.

'I had a long conversation with your Mr Waverly' Robinson said gravely. 'People here will not want a big incident; I'm afraid that tourism ranks pretty high on the priority list here, and there are a lot of powerful offshore companies who won't want any sort of publicity interfering with their business if you take my drift. However, it appears that the police may be in the vicinity to, as it were, mop up anything you might like to throw in their direction' he added, a lazy smile coming to his lips.

'That sounds just about right' Napoleon said, 'if our friend has been able to do his job. However', he got up, finishing the coffee and setting it down on the table, 'I am concerned that his communicator is indicating either a malfunction or . . . '

' it has been destroyed' Anya said mechanically, without opening her eyes. She stood up, rubbing her face with her hand, but not before Napoleon had grasped her arm firmly with his hand.

'Listen. I want you to stay here, and please don't argue with me, I don't have time. I don't want these good folks put in any danger whatsoever, and I don't want the girls to wake up to a strange house, however delightful the occupants may be' he said, smiling at John and Allegra, who had just entered the room as he was speaking. 'Tomorrow, if John could arrange for a car to pick up Mitzi, I'll send a message with her and if you're up to it, you can join us. In the meantime I need to know what happened to Illya and then we'll be in a position to work out our final strategy, Ok?'

'There's a police station at Somerset Village' Robinson said. 'If your colleague can get there, we can arrange transport from there, as well as running the operation from the same place.'

Before Anya could reply, Allegra encompassed her in her arms, the Russian looking tiny in the grasp of the Trinidadian.

'I'll show you where to go, hon' she said huskily. 'You look deadbeat, and come early morning, there will be five kids to attend to' she added, sweeping her off before anything else could be said. Napoleon reached for his jacket which he'd slung over the chair earlier, and followed Robinson out towards the front of the house.

'Illya will be very grateful to you for this' he said, as he swung himself into the seat of the Jeep, Robinson slamming the door, before leaning on the open window frame.

'We're happy to oblige' he said, nodding. 'Besides, Allegra has a mighty soft spot for the man, despite the way she goes on.' He stepped back a little before continuing, 'hard to imagine them together, ain't it?'

'Since you brought it up, yeah, it is' Napoleon replied, not wishing to admit first that the thought had been going through his mind continually since he first saw Allegra Robinson.

'They fought like cat and dog all the damn time I knew them' Robinson said, 'so I guess you just have to work out what it was that kept it going for so long.' Napoleon grinned at the man's coolness; it was obvious, even if it hadn't been before, what drew the Russian to this man and his astonishing wife.

'Good luck' Robinson said, saluting him in the darkness. 'Bring them back safe, otherwise we'll all have Allegra to deal with, and believe me, that guy you're dealing with is as nothing to my wife when she's riled.'

xxxxxxxxx

Illya stared at the drink of water, his expression darkening.

'Are you going to behave, or do I have to put on the neck clamp too?' The nurse, a hard looking female of indeterminate age with thin red lips and dyed blonde hair unattractively yanked back from her face, waved the bottle in front of him again. He had head butted the first one, just because it was the only way in which he could relieve any of the pent up feelings he now had towards those who gathered around him.

They had tilted the bed slightly, enabling him to see both the room and its occupants more clearly. He had also, as his drug-induced mind fog had finally cleared, been able to understand what had been happening to his own body. Despite the presence of a sheet and the clamps to his wrists and ankles, he could see, if not feel that every hair on his body had been removed. He had rubbed his head on the bed, immediately reassured that for once, the hair on his head was still there, but apart from that, nothing else remained. The various scars and wounds, the story of his life as an agent, seemed to stand out painfully now, their various shapes telling of burns, wounds, bullets and operations incurred as a necessary if unwelcome part of his job.

He looked across at the trays set out to the side, equally relieved and perplexed at what he noticed was a lack of anything resembling normal surgical equipment. On the other side however, a more sinister looking machine lurked, Illya's mind trying to fathom what purpose it could have. They were obviously going to perform some kind of surgery, and not understanding what that was only increased the levels of stress he now was beginning to feel.

'Yes' he grumbled, as the nurse rammed the spout of the water bottle in his mouth and he gulped the cool liquid down. He suddenly realised, with some comfort, that if they were aiming to cut him open in any way, they would not be giving him so much liquid. After he had managed to drink as much as he could, she removed it hastily, stepping back as two rather more unpleasant figures from his past stepped forward.

'Ah; more clear-headed now, Illyusha?' Erik Funk asked, folding back the sheet to Illya's ankles, much to the Russian's annoyance and embarrassment. He tried not to rise to the bait of his diminutive being used by Funk, glaring at him before swivelling his head towards the person standing the other side of the bed.

'Of course, you know Dr Egret of course, Lyusha, don't you' Funk continued, his fake friendliness beginning to get under Illya's very smooth skin.

'Unfortunately, yes' he managed to reply tersely, before returning his most unfriendly gaze towards Funk.

They began to poke and prod his various scars, Funk having dropped his chummy attitude and now ignoring Illya altogether as he spoke to the woman opposite him.

'As you can see, he has a variety of rather unpleasant marks, plus the tattoo here' he said, prodding Illya's pubic region rather more painfully than he needed to, 'and also on his sacral area' he said. 'However, we won't turn him over yet, as he tends to be rather volatile when given the chance.' He gave Illya a nasty leering smile, before returning his gaze to Dr Egret. 'However, I think that with the results we've been obtaining recently, we should achieve an almost 100% improvement rate with the _Novacutis_.'

Illya's Latin was good enough to easily translate the name. _New skin_. For once, he kept quiet, reasoning that Funk would reveal more to Egret than he would if Illya baited him with some facetious comment of his own. What puzzled him more than anything was why they were going to such trouble with his body, rather than just either killing him outright or using him for some ghastly experiment of Funk or Hoang's choosing. He presumed that Funk had betrayed him to Hoang, and as he thought about it, he couldn't stop himself from suddenly interrupting their conversation.

'How did you know it was me?' Funk stopped prodding for a moment and looked up, and then running his hand gratuitously down Illya's arm, grabbed his hand.

'These, you silly boy. 'You should have known that Dr Erik knows everything there is to know about Illyusha, everything. The makeup was state of the art, darling, and you always were a great dissembler, but your hands, well, they're unusually manly for someone of your, let me say, rather _gamine _size. And it's not the only manly thing about you, is it, sad to say' he said, glancing at Dr Egret, who Illya was sure cringed slightly at his comments.

Illya lapsed into a confused silence again as they continued their tour of his scars. Funk's last comment had disturbing overtones which Illya as yet failed to understand. Obviously even someone as unpleasant as Dr Egret found them disturbing, which worried him. He glanced up at the large clock on the wall and wondered why they were in so much of a hurry. The answer came soon enough. Funk signalled to someone behind Illya's head, and the bed was immediately lowered, the machine which he still hadn't quite fathomed being brought over and readied at the same time. Illya swallowed hard, trying to calm himself, assuring himself that he'd been in worse situations and that somewhere out there, Napoleon was around.

Funk turned away briefly, before appearing by his side with another syringe.

'I hate to say this won't hurt' he said in an oozing manner, but another little dose of this will make you not really care when it does. Oh, and of course you were wondering what the machine is, weren't you?' He touched Illya's tattoo again, this time a little more gently. 'After a few false starts, we've developed a rather good way of removing these' he said, deliberately stroking round Illya's genital area. Illya closed his eyes, willing himself not to let this man have any pleasure in any way from his work.

'I see' he said sharply. 'I'm sorry, but I just don't understand why. Why are you going to all this trouble?' Funk looked across at Egret, the two of them looking as if they were enjoying a secret joke at his expense.

'Oh, that'll become very clear at visiting time' he said, leaning over Illya and smiling fondly at him in the fake way Illya found almost unbearable in the man. 'Yes, after the meeting, when Clark has been confirmed as head of THRUSH, you'll be his first port of call' he continued in mocking terms. 'Oh, and I expect he'll be bringing the lovely Summer with him, so we need you ready, don't we?'

Illya breathed out deeply, beginning to reach the end of his patience with the man's insinuations, but frantically trying not to show it.

'Ready for what?' he said, forcing his voice down into tones which didn't sound as desperate as the feelings which were now going on inside him.

'I think he's going to give you the number Three' Egret said suddenly, leaning over him. 'There. Happy now?'

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

The party had segued into a few small cliques of mainly THRUSH central members, discussing what Napoleon almost certainly knew was the meeting now scheduled for later that morning. He could see a couple of tables from his position in the shadows of the hedge, a few employees of the resort complex clearing up and by the look of their faces, hoping that the remaining patrons would soon take themselves off to bed.

Napoleon glided past, making his way to the end of the building where by some luck, Illya and Mitzi's room lay, on the first floor, a convenient avocado tree of reasonably immense proportions growing outside. He discarded the idea of actually climbing the tree in favour of the drainpipe, a fairly substantial metal one, taking water from the roof to giant tanks underneath the hotel, but rather well camouflaged by the tree from any guard who might be patrolling the building.

He grasped the pipe firmly and shimmied up, the white paint making a mess of his clothes but otherwise providing him with a perfect climb to Mitzi's window. Grasping the pipe with one hand, he peered into the room, before giving the window a sharp tap with his hand. Nothing happened for a few moments, before a lamp was suddenly switched on and Mitzi appeared at the window, letting out a small scream of the Cindy Henderson variety before wrenching it up to allow him entry.

'Oh my God, darling, what are you doing here?' she started, attempting to brush down his clothes at the same time as talking to him. The reason for his appearance suddenly began to dawn on her, Mitzi's face sobering dramatically in the dim light of the lamp. Napoleon shut the window before sitting down on the end of the bed holding Mitzi's hand.

'I think Illya may be in difficulty' he began quietly, anticipating her feelings. 'We have to leave here now, otherwise I think you may be in danger very soon, in fact I thought they might be here before now. Just get changed very quickly into something dark and comfortable, and come with me.' Mitzi looked round the room, a stricken look on her face.

'What, leave all this?' she said, running to the wardrobe and grabbing some slacks and a dark cotton turtle neck.

'Clothes can be replaced, you can't' Napoleon replied. 'Besides, Rudi will kill me unpleasantly if anything happens to you.' Turning off the lights, they retreated the same way Napoleon had arrived, Mitzi appearing to slip down the drain pipe with consummate ease.

'I was a star gymnast at home' she whispered, as Napoleon pulled her into the shade of the tree. Napoleon looked up, the darkness of the room suddenly brilliantly illuminated. He didn't wait to see who would come to the window.

They ran without speaking until they were out of sight of the main building, both of them glancing up at the Spa as they sprinted past in the shadows on the edge of the croquet lawn, both of them noting the light seeping out of a tightly drawn blind on the third floor. Solo turned for a moment to catch Mitzi's worried stare, before they plunged on towards the safety of the cottage.

They were opening the door when Solo was aware of someone else near, a kind of strangled cry followed by someone repeating the same words several times; 'damn, damn, oh double damn!' He pushed Mitzi inside the cottage and crept towards the sound, coming from another similar cottage further up the row towards the Spa. A young woman with long frizzy hair was standing disconsolately by her front door, her foot in the process of mechanically kicking the wall at the side. As he approached, she jumped round and flattened herself against the door.

'Can I be of assistance, ma'am?' Napoleon asked, taking in her bedraggled looking dress and her glasses, so like the ones Tess always referred to as Illya's ' birth control glasses.' He could see her now standing in their office at UNCLE, her lovely lilting voice matching her smile as she stood behind Illya, her hands on his shoulders as he sat at his desk pretended to ignore her. 'Perhaps that's where we went wrong, we relied upon the glasses to make him less desirable than he so obviously is', she had continued, before slowly spinning him round in his chair, and, with great aplomb, casting the glasses onto the table and with a swooning sound, kissing him passionately; Kuryakin allowing it, a secret smile playing on his lips behind the outward protestations.

The girl's crying jerked him back from the memory.

'I'm sorry' she started to sob, 'I've just about had enough today. This is my first day, and you're the third man who's jumped out on me tonight, and now I've gone and left my keys in that wretched place _again_!'

Something about her shouted 'innocent scientist type' to Napoleon. He produced a handkerchief in time to assist with mopping up her tears, before with a huge sigh, she returned her glasses to her nose and stared at him closely.

'You're . . . not . . . _Russian_ are you?' she asked tremulously, before giving her nose a tremendous blow into the sodden handkerchief. 'Only I've helped out MI6 enough for one evening. I couldn't bear it if I had to help them arrest you as well' she said, beginning to stare at him suspiciously.

No, I'm hundred per cent American' Solo replied smiling. 'Er, this Russian you helped arrest, he didn't happen to be shortish, blond, . .'

'Yes, good looking, that was the one!' she exclaimed, suddenly looking alarmed.

'Well, if you say so' Napoleon replied. 'So how does MI6 fit into it, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Well that's who we're working for, in the labs' she said in a stage whisper, suddenly gasping at the realisation of what she had just said. 'But I shouldn't have told you that, should I, seeing that I only know you're American.'

Napoleon stared at her, wondering how on earth Illya had wound up with her and what terrible falsehood had been spun to get her to come here.

'Well gee you have nothing to worry about ma'am because I'm actually a liaison officer for the CIA' he lied smoothly. 'In fact it's lucky I ran into you, because the man you're referring to, the Soviet, I'm actually here to escort back to the United States for trial in connection with serious espionage offences he is alleged to have committed' he said earnestly, seeing her eyes growing larger by the second behind the glasses as he spoke.

'But he seemed so sweet!' she said, a rather dreamy look coming into her eyes. 'I mean, he even sang to me in the lift going down to the labs.' Napoleon forced back a smile.

'He did? Well, that is one of the many seduction techniques these Soviet spies have at their disposal' he replied, nodding wisely. 'Now listen, Miss . . .

'Ironside. Petula Ironside'

'Miss Ironside, we need to get back inside the Spa building, you to collect your keys and I to discover the whereabouts of Comrade Kuryakin' he replied, pronouncing Illya's surname with a long 'a' for maximum red-neck effect. She stared at him again, and then came closer.

'The MI6 men, you know the ones pretending to be those awful guards with no hair and those black uniforms, they did something with the lift and he just went straight up to the third floor' she whispered, 'except that it stopped for a while at the second floor while they put something in the lift to subdue him' she continued confidentially. 'I felt a bit awful, seeing that I said I'd meet him when he got back from finding his keys in the lab, and he was awfully nice' she said wistfully, giving a large sigh. 'You won't hurt him, will you, Mr . .'

'Er, the name's Martine, Brent Martine, and no, I'll try to be firm but kind with our Soviet friend, Miss Ironside' Napoleon continued, beginning to walk towards the Spa with Petula, now arm in arm.

As they walked, Petula related her meeting with Illya, Napoleon smirking slightly at yet another example of Kuryakin's usual kindliness towards children, animals and young innocent ladies. By the sound of it, he had managed to set the explosives, but Napoleon wondered whether Illya's watch, which he was sure would be needed to set off the explosions, was going to be recoverable, or even worth looking for if they had realised what he was up to.

'The MI6 men went up the stairs at the back there' Petula continued, as they approached the Spa doors, searching around in her bag for the new day's card, 'but I think they used a key.' Napoleon smiled at her as they entered the silent building, Petula rushing towards the desk, where, with a whoop of delight, she found the keys where she had put them as she accosted by the men in black earlier in the evening.

As she went to leave, he grabbed her arm, and spun her round to face him.

'Listen' he said gravely, looking her in the eyes, 'this is very high level stuff, understand? Strictly on a need to know basis, Miss Ironside, and nobody else except you and me need to know, okay?' Petula nodded vigorously and then, giving him a little wave, she vanished into the darkness of the manicured lawn outside.

As Napoleon approached the door to the staircase, he hoped that both Petula and Brent Martine would not have too hard a time of it when the entry records for the Spa were examined that morning and it became obvious that Kuryakin, now obviously at the mercy of Hoang was not acting alone; that Napoleon Solo, his partner, was free, and that now all the lives they had sought to protect were in immediate and very extreme danger.

xxxxxxx


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Napoleon opened the door a crack and peered out, shutting it almost instantly as a nurse walked past, and then, after a few moments, opening it again. A broad reception area opened out in front of him, with three short wide corridors leading off it. On the left, one corridor lead to theatres of some sort, whilst the other two appeared to contain sets of small rooms on either side.

He had already decided that he wanted to enter and leave undetected, if possible, but unrecognised definitely. The corridor leading to the theatre area was in darkness, Napoleon guessing that operations had ceased for the night. The middle corridor was also dimly lit, the small windows in each room completely dark as far as he could see. He concluded that either there were no patients, or these were treatment rooms and a few doctor's studies, only used during the day. It was only in the right corridor where activity appeared to be taking place, a dull glow emanating from several of the rooms as he glanced across.

A locker room with an adjacent toilet was situated opposite the door. Napoleon waited until the nurse at the station looked down, before slipping across and into the room. Somebody was in the cubicle, his white doctor's coat and stethoscope hung up on a peg attached to the side wall. Napoleon grabbed the coat and winding the stethoscope round his neck, edged out of the room and back through the doors leading to the stairs. He edged the door open a tiny way, as the man occupying the cubicle approached the Nurses' desk.

'Say, did you see anyone come into the rest room? Somebody's walked off with my coat!' he exclaimed. There was an exchange of conversation between them before Napoleon heard him say, 'Well, I'm going off duty now anyway. Check in number 15 and remember he's nil by mouth from eight o'clock.' He closed the door quickly as the man approached the lift and then disappeared downwards, the doors closing with a smooth hiss after him.

Napoleon edged out of the door and walked nonchalantly into the locker room, removing the name tag attached to the white coat as he entered. A couple of nurses were sitting having coffee, one quite attractive with curly red hair, the other sporting a much harder expression which went well with her bright red lips and platinum blond hair.

'Hi, girls, mind if I join you?' he said cheerfully, helping himself to coffee and plonking himself down by their side.

'Where d'you come from, handsome?' the redhead said, smiling at him. I didn't see you earlier on when I came on duty.'

'Oh, I've been catching up on paper work' he said, casually sipping his coffee, noticing that the blond didn't seem as convinced by his story as her friend. She stood up, and ignoring Napoleon headed for the door, turning round as she grabbed the handle.

'I'm off duty now, Noreen, so you'll have to ask Betty to help you with 15 if he starts again.' The redhead Noreen nodded, putting her hand on Napoleon's arm. It's OK, he's quiet at the moment, and besides, I can ask Dr . . .

'Oh, Tempest, Paul Tempest' Napoleon said quickly, patting his chest. 'I think I must have left my badge in my room' he added, getting up.

'I can ask Dr Tempest here to help me with him', Noreen continued, flashing a pearly white smile at Napoleon before the door closed on her rather sourer companion.

'Don't mind Kathleen, she's had a hard evening with 15, that's all' she said, getting up.

'Oh, I didn't see him come in. Is he disturbed in some way?' Napoleon asked as they came out of the room.

'I don't think so. He just wasn't very happy at what's been done to him when he came round, that's all. He'll be fine by tonight, when it's all over.' Napoleon looked at her, beginning to feel differently about her deceptively friendly manner.

Noreen leaned over the nurses' station talking to the nurse called Betty at the desk, before signalling to Napoleon to follow her down the right corridor. He glanced in at a couple of rooms they passed, where several impossible to identify people were lying, their heads swathed in bandages.

'Those are Dr Dabree's experiments' Noreen said, as if they were looking at Bunsen burners and test tubes, rather than living people. He began to count the numbers on the doors. In this corridor there were five quite spacious rooms, numbered eleven to fifteen. His stomach began to churn slightly as they approached room fifteen.

Napoleon was afforded instant relief just by the sight of Illya's head, his hair intact, lying sideways on the pillow, the rather full bottom lip slightly drooping as he slept. The bed was flat, the Russian's wrists tethered to the cot by thick metal manacles. He moved slightly as they came in, Napoleon having a distinct feeling of the mattress moving below its patient as he writhed above.

'We need to turn him' Noreen said. 'I'll call the guards.' She went towards the phone on the side of the bed, before Napoleon stopped her.

'Look, we don't need them' he began. 'If we do it quickly, he won't even wake up.'

'You wanna bet?' Noreen replied, her eyes wide. 'Last time he punched one of the guards in the face and he was still half gone from the drugs.'

Napoleon leaned over and pulled back one of Illya's eyelids at the same time as saying very close to his ear,

'Now behave or you won't get any more kisses from curly haired girls'. Illya stiffened, his eyes closing and then opening rapidly.

'I should be so lucky.'

Napoleon straightened, but not before he had noticed the bandages covering what looked like most of Kuryakin's body, as if someone had wanted the practice and had chosen the Russian.

'Gee, he sure has a lot of wounds' he said to the nurse, whistling between his teeth. 'I'm sorry, I'm unfamiliar with Dr Funk's work; I only started today.'

'It's part of the preparation' she said easily, folding back the sheet to reveal the true extent of Kuryakin's bandaging. 'All the guards have to start unblemished you see. He had a lot of scars, but the treatment saw to that. He'll be fine in a couple of hours' she added, selecting a small key from the key ring in her pocket and unlocking the manacle holding Illya's left ankle to the bed, before repeating the action with his wrist.

'We'll roll him over and fasten this side to the bed, and then release the other side and slide him over, OK?' Noreen said, coming over to the same side of the bed as Napoleon. He watched her slip the key into her pocket, obviously not wanting to return it to the ring until the job had been done. As he grasped Illya's midriff and hip he felt the Russian wince under his touch, then relax as they rolled him over and fastened him to the side of the bed.

'Here, give me the key, I'll release that side and then we'll be ready for him' Napoleon said, smiling at Noreen. She hesitated for a moment, before handing over the key and walking round the bed to the other side. He could see Illya looking steadily at him as he crouched slightly to undo the limbs which were now trapped under the other ones, his blue eyes at once trusting and also radiating a kind of pain which Napoleon knew was not just physical.

He ran round to the other side, as they pulled Illya onto his abdomen, the Russian grunting with pain as Napoleon secured the manacles and then gently replaced the sheet over Illya's body.

'Wow, that was easier than last time' Noreen exclaimed, rearranging Illya's head in a rather rough manner before turning to Napoleon. 'He obviously knew who was boss, eh?' Napoleon slipped the key into his trouser pocket, before grasping her round the waist and pulling her towards him.

'Yes, he looks as if he's used to taking orders from a higher authority' he said, ignoring the grunting noise behind him as he began to kiss her, his free hand rapidly unbuttoning her uniform as he roughly shoved his tongue into her mouth.

After a few moments, she struggled slightly, but not much, and gently lent back her head.

'Not here' she said breathlessly. 'He might enjoy it too much considering what's going to happen to him tomorrow.' Napoleon forced himself not to cringe both at her and her words, as she hurriedly buttoned up her dress.

'Alright then. I have to go in a few minutes, so why don't you meet me when you come off duty? My bedroom has a perfect ocean view.' She smiled, then suddenly started as a bell sounded in the corridor.

'Bye for now' she said, putting her finger on her lips and blowing him a kiss. 'I'll meet you at reception at eight, OK?' Napoleon nodded, watching her leave the room with relief, as his fingers curled round the key in his pocket.

He turned back to his partner, now lying watching him with his face squashed against the pillow. Napoleon glanced at the door, before drawing out the key and beginning to insert it in the first manacle.

'No.' Napoleon paused, and then withdrew the key from the lock.

'Illya, you cannot stay here. You heard what she said about what they're going to do, though for the life of me, I don't understand why.' Illya sighed a little, the manacles clanging slightly on the cot sides as he adjusted his position.

'Believe me Napoleon, nobody is more anxious than me to leave this place, but I can't, not now. Hoang knows now that I am alive and so will presume that you are also free and probably here somewhere. If he wasn't already, he will now be very heavily guarded and the only chance I have of getting near him will be if he thinks I am in his control. If he continues this chain of thought, he may even begin to question whether Tess is also 'the real deal' as you Americans say.' He signalled with his head for Napoleon to get closer, Solo leaning over the cot side until he was close to the Russian.

'You have to do two things for me, Napoleon. Try to get close to Tess so that where she goes you go. I don't know . . . ' he looked almost distracted, the combination of the drugs and the stress of the situation giving his face a pallor which Napoleon had seen so many times before in similar situations. There was a silence between them for a while, before suddenly, Napoleon spoke.

'I have an idea. The only slight difficulty may be one of disguise, but if I can arrange something, I may be able to take the place of her guard, if she has one.' He could see a slight gleam come into the Russian's eye.

'Yes, I'm sure she has one. And Napoleon, Mitzi moved all her makeup stuff into your cottage yesterday. Didn't you know?' Napoleon smiled.

'No. But knowing her, nothing surprises me.' He stood up, stretching, a feeling of exhaustion beginning to creep into his bones.

'There's something else. It's almost certain that they will give me _Somatex_ later this morning before the meeting.' Any tiredness Napoleon was feeling disappeared at Illya's words.

'Listen, Napoleon. I met a girl tonight, she helped me . .'

'Petula?'

'You've met her?'

'She lives next door to me. She told me all about a wicked but rather nice Russian spy she had to betray because MI6 told her to.'

'_MI6_?' Napoleon bent down again, amused by the little boy lost expression now drifting across Illya's face.

'Apparently so. She may be extremely clever in her field, but as far as the world goes, she is but a little lamb' Napoleon replied, raising his eyebrows.

'Napoleon, you need to get her involved again. She works in the lab which produces the drugs. She told me that they are stored there all the time, and only sent up here when they are needed. You have to get her to switch them, you know like the pharmacist at UNCLE?'

Napoleon stood up suddenly, walking to the window looking down on the now largely silent campus below.

'That is a very dangerous and risky plan' he said, staring out of the window.

'It may be, but it's the only one I have' Illya replied.

'And the surgery?'

'I don't think that will go ahead, at least not yet. He will want to demonstrate the power of the drug and his own ability to control even his most formidable enemies, Napoleon. If I'm undergoing surgery, that will take away some of his glory, don't you think? No, I think the only disadvantage of my new job will be the loss of my hair, rather than, er, my manhood.'

Napoleon turned, leaning against the window.

'I still don't understand fully what this is all about' he said quietly. Illya smiled, for the first time looking a little less gaunt and tired than before.

'I think you do' he began gently. 'Hoang's aim is to control THRUSH, to be THRUSH I suppose. However, as we know, he wants more than that. He could have killed me today, but that would be too unsatisfying to his ego. These guards are an elite force, much more than the girls who worked on the island when Hoang was Bolt, remember, and certainly on an infinitesimally higher scale than your average THRUSH hooligan. The drug _Somatex_ has wiped away their pasts and created a new force who are totally committed to Hoang personally. I imagine they have a background in intelligence or are former mercenaries, and the programming leaves in place all their skills; it just changes their allegiance and their capacity to serve _unconditionally_.'

He looked down at his body, the white bandages covering all the history of his career in UNCLE. 'Funk has developed some sort of liquid skin that covers scars of any kind. By doing this he is wiping clean my life before now; even the tattoos have been removed. Tomorrow he will parade Tess and me as evidence of his power to destroy and change lives at will.'

'So what's the surgery all about then?' Illya smiled sardonically.

'Well apparently, it's called 'gender reduction'. It has a fascinating history, Napoleon, including in my own homeland of course. The _Skoptzy_ were a Christian group in Russia who believed that castration was necessary to attain sanctity. Then of course there were the eunuchs of the Chinese and Ottoman courts . . .'

'Thank you for the history lesson' Napoleon said tersely. 'I don't know how you can be so calm about it, for God's sake.' Illya looked up at him and shrugged slightly under the bandages.

'Despite the rather good news that eunuchs rarely go bald, I can assure you that I have no intention of giving Hoang either my wife or my genitals. So perhaps you had better go and see if Petula will help me keep my brain intact and then you can work on your new disguise with Mitzi.'

As he was leaving, Napoleon noticed a box behind the Nurses' station with a familiar looking black turtle neck sweater on top. He strolled over to the desk, which was unoccupied, and then slipping behind, rapidly drew the box towards him and sifted through the contents. At the bottom, in a plastic bag, he found what he was looking for. Shoving the watch in his trouser pocket, he walked as quickly as he could to the stairs, and then ran down the three flights until eventually he felt the cool of the night air on his face again.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Illya sat on the side of the bed, relief coming in two ways, from the large drink of water he had just helped himself to, and also from the urine bottle that he was now happily filling. The guard stepped neatly to the side as the nurse left the room with the bottle, before fixing Illya with a cold glare as he finished the glass of water. The nil by mouth sign had been removed from his bed as well, all very hopeful signs that at least one of his problems had been removed already.

Erik Funk swept into the room, two nurses following behind him, one with a large metal trolley upon which were assembled a variety of instruments.

'Good morning, Illyusha' Funk said ingratiatingly. 'Lie down please, or do I have to get this nice man here to persuade you?'

'Prone or supine?' Illya replied coldly, fixing Funk with a heavy gaze.

'On your back, please' Funk replied, smiling unpleasantly. 'Now don't mess me around this morning, Illya darling, because we have a special visitor coming, just to see you.'

'I'm honoured' Illya replied, edging his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster. Funk stared at him, and then jerked his head towards one of the nurses.

'You should be. If it wasn't for him, I'd be making you rather less of a man than you are, by now.'

'I'll remember to thank him.'

'Oh don't worry, Illya; when you've had your treatment, you'll be back to see me actually requesting the surgery. Ironic, isn't it?' Funk sneered, as the nurse reached round Illya's neck and undid his gown.

Illya looked down at his body, a tinge of regret already passing through him at the loss of the tattoo he had been given on his last, very drunken night as a naval officer on board the _Moskva. _All that remained now where the hammer and sickle had lain beneath his pubic hair was a rather sore looking area of skin covered by a square dressing. Funk ignored it, instead starting to remove one of the bandages on his abdomen, below which had been the large scar he had incurred from the surgery he had undergone after he had been shot by Konstantin Blau. To Illya's amazement, he took hold of one end and proceeded to rip it off.

Illya stared at his belly, trying to ignore Funk's overweening pride in his own work. Funk put his hand on the place where the scar had been, running his finger across from side to side.

'You heal well, Illya dear. Now lie back and the girls will take it all off, except for those over your former artwork of course. When all the dressings are off, girls, make sure he looks presentable for our guest, won't you? He swept out of the room again, the nurses leaping forward and beginning to tear off the bandages, one of them with a firm arm over Illya's throat as she worked. After a few moments' consternation, he took a deep breath, relaxed and closed his eyes.

xxxxxxxx

The alarm on Napoleon's watch made his head feel as if it were vibrating in tune to the instrument. He squeezed the button shut on the side of the dial and sat up, willing his eyes to focus enough to tell him the time. Mitzi appeared at the door in a towelling robe, her real hair now twisted on top of her head.

'Time to go, darling' she whispered. I have the basic concept, but I need to see the real man in order to perfect it.'

'Well hopefully he should be heading our way if I can get to see Tess. Let's hope she sticks to her usual morning routine' he said, staggering into the shower without even thinking that Mitzi stood there watching him.

He glanced up at the top floor of the spa as he left the cottage, thinking of Illya alone and chained to the bed, vulnerable to the whims of Funk and his master. Pushing the thought out of his mind for a moment, he turned away and jogged down towards Hoang's house, keeping close to the hedges which curtained the road, until, skirting round the deserted tennis courts, he slipped through between a set of three cottages towards the beach ahead.

He could see her further up, already moving into the sea, her body huge but still somehow graceful in the close-fitting swimsuit. Napoleon glanced at his watch, wondering how she had dragged herself up at such an early hour after such a stressful day and evening. The beach, apart from the two of them was empty, the pink sand smooth with the movement of the night sea. He crouched down low against the trunk of a screw pine, surveying the beach and the rising land behind it for any signs that Miss Summer Day was not alone, but there were none, only the intense colours of several parrot fish flopping against the incoming waves diverting his attention from the woman swimming gently out across the clear aquamarine sea.

Napoleon ran to the sea's edge and when she turned, signalled, waving his arms before returning to the comparative safety of the pine tree. For a moment she seemed to do nothing, her head bobbing in the water like a rather beautiful piece of flotsam, until suddenly she stood up and began to wade in towards the beach, grabbing her towel and then half-running towards him.

They embraced for a few moments, Therese smelling of salt and fresh air, before she twisted back upon his chest, his arms enclosing her as they gazed out at the sea together.

'Tell me what's happened' she said, not looking round. 'Something is wrong, or you wouldn't have taken this risk, would you?'

Napoleon waited, debating how much to tell her, considering the traumas of the previous day.

'Last night, after you'd left' he began, Illya was recognised by Dr Erik Funk, you know . . .'

'The plastic surgeon with the simulated smile' Therese replied, Napoleon feeling the tenseness in her body as she spoke.

'Illya went to the laboratories last night,'

'Don't tell me, to lay explosives' Therese replied, grasping Napoleon's arms and pulling them tighter across herself.

'Er, yes. He was probably drugged in some way in the elevator and taken up to the third floor of the spa.' Therese breathed in deeply and forced herself to ask the next, inevitable question.

'Is he alive?' Napoleon stroked the back of her neck, where he noticed tiny curls hung down from the mass she had piled above.

'Yes, oh yes, he's alive, only . . .' Tess pulled away from him, turning herself with difficulty and sitting opposite him.

'Only what?' she said, demanding honesty from him which he knew he had to give.

'Hoang wants him as one of his guards, so that he can show the assembled folks just how clever and powerful he is . .'

'And what happens when you try to cross him' Tess said quietly, looking down. Napoleon took one of her hands and held it, before holding her in his arms again for a few moments.

'Tess, listen' Napoleon began again, 'I need to know something about your guard, if you have one.' Therese looked round at him quizzically, a shadow of a smile on her lips.

'Oh yes, I have one. I bet you're wondering where he is too, aren't you? I made a big fuss with Lee, I mean Clark about not being able to come here alone every morning, so he gave in, amazingly. I have to have some solitude, Napoleon, just to think things through.'

Napoleon smiled and squeezed her a little.

'Sounds like a little of the Russian has rubbed off on you' he said. She continued to gaze at the sea, as two sea birds with astonishing long tail feathers swooped and flirted over the sea in front of them.

'Oh look, tropicbirds!' Therese said enthusiastically, turning back to him, and then returning her gaze to the sea, she continued, 'and you're wrong Napoleon; a lot of him has rubbed off onto me. He is everything to me, and I would do anything, _anything_ for him and for our children.'

'I know' Napoleon replied. 'He's a lucky guy and he knows it, Tess.'

He rose to his feet, helping Therese up, before they stood underneath the tree together.

'Can you arrange to come to the salon at the spa with your guard this morning? I can get in with the help of a friend and I'll just have to persuade our friend Mr Martine to cooperate, which shouldn't be too difficult.'

Therese stared at him, the quizzical look which he knew his partner found so difficult to resist, returning to her face.

'What are you going to do?' she said, sounding a bit like her sister.

'Well, by later this morning, you, Miss Day, are going to have a new guard' he said, smiling.

xxxxxxxx

'Hold still, or I'll give you a few scars to replace those you lost.' Illya glared malevolently at the badge on the very well upholstered bosom of the nurse leaning over him. With the nurses at UNCLE he liked to have a little fun, feigning discomfort until they usually threw something soft and wet at him and good behaviour was restored. He had never received anything but kindness at their hands, and his bad temper had often been purely born of frustration due to inactivity. Therese had teased him unmercifully about his inclination to dour miserableness, as she called it, and because of her, his reputation for awkwardness had faded.

Here, it was a kind of dark mirror image of all the love shown him in that other life. It wasn't that he was in pain; whatever the process Funk had used, the healing time was incredibly quick, and there was no sign of soreness, in fact there was no sign that anything except normal, healthy skin covered his lean muscular body. Only the tattoos were now bandaged, and that only for a short time as well. As the nurses worked on him, he realised what it was that was missing. There was no love in their actions, no care for him or what they were doing to him. They were the very opposite of what he imagined nurses should be.

The nurse, whose name turned out to be Marjorie Tranter, yanked him forward, while her companion, a tall thin woman called Delia, dragged a clean gown up his body and fastened it behind his neck.

'What's wrong with pyjamas?' Illya asked, as they re-arranged the pillows and shoved him backwards, Marjorie fastening his wrists to the sides of the bed once more.

'In case Mr Hoang needs to inspect the work' Delia said in a rather low-pitched voice, as if Illya were a newly restored building rather than a human being. Illya sighed as they pushed the trolley away from the bed and stood together looking at him. Marjorie fixed him with a critical stare, before turning back and, grabbing a comb, began to comb his hair away from his face with a roughness he had last experienced as a child when being inspected for head lice.

'There, that'll have to do' she said finally, inspecting her handiwork. 'Not that it matters; once he's one of them' she continued, turning her head towards the guard behind them and winking at Delia, 'he won't need a comb.' The other nurse sniggered a little, before they turned away from him and wheeled the trolley out of the room, followed closely by the guard, who Illya noticed was tattooed '35'.

He looked at the large clock facing him, telling him that it was already nearing the time when Hoang would arrive, which would also mean the imminent arrival of the drug _Somatex_. He began to think of Napoleon's visit, and whether he had expected too much of his beloved friend and partner. He had chosen to remain here, at the mercy of these people, rather than take the freedom Napoleon had offered. What had seemed like a good plan now began to unravel in his mind. What if these minutes were his last as Illya Kuryakin? He forced down feelings of doubt and near panic and began to breathe deeply and calmly. He would trust his partner and he would prevail.

He shut he eyes, feeling his skin on the sheets. There was an uncomfortable smoothness to its hairless, scar-less state which made him cringe, as if he had evolved into someone else, like a snake shedding its skin to grow. He suddenly thought of the watery depths below, of the mysterious eyes he had seen, and of the growing realisation of what was lurking beneath the murky waters. He wondered about the explosives he had left in the laboratories, and whether they had been discovered. But whether they had found them or not, there was no means now of triggering the explosion now that everything he wore had been taken from him.

A slight coughing sound momentarily startled him, before his eyes flew open and focused on the person standing in front of him, a phalanx of white coated men and women behind him, and then, at the back two black suited, shaven headed individuals standing in stark contrast to those in front.

'Mr Kuryakin. Do you know, seeing you alive, well, it has been rather fortuitous as it turns out.'

'Oh. And why is that?'

'Because now, I will have one of the world's most resourceful, intelligent and well-trained spies at my beck and call. _Permanently_.'

xxxxxxxxx

The laboratory was empty, fortuitously, Petula thought, as she slung her bag down by the bench. She dragged out a stool and sat for a moment, her elbows on the hard wooden surface, supporting her face in her hands. Eventually, she breathed out deeply and looked up, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. Getting up, she opened the door of a cupboard on the far wall, and removed two small phials of colourless liquid with blank labels attached.

If she had been reading a book about the past twenty four hours in her life, let alone the past week, she would have thrown it down as trashy and unbelievable airport fiction. Looking back on the whole thing, the interview in the prestigious offices of a pharmaceutical company in London, the signing of what she thought was the Official Secrets Act and the explanation of her work and its benefit to British Intelligence; all seemed so obviously out of a James Bond novel now that she felt like laughing at her naivety in believing any of it. But the blond Russian who sounded so English, he was different; he felt real in a way they didn't, and she defied anyone of the female sex not to have melted at his innocent charm. And now another man had appeared, someone who claimed to be working for the Americans, and now appeared to be the Russian's partner working for some international security organisation she had only vaguely heard of.

He had woken her up at some ungodly hour, hanging on her doorbell until she had answered, and then forcing her to listen to his story. Like the Russian though, there was something equally genuine about him too, in this place which seemed full of liars and lies. He had all but begged her to help him, claiming that his partner's life depended upon it.

After listening, she had sat for a while, her head in her hands, trying to think. She had looked up eventually into his candid brown eyes, amazed by her own request.

'Mr Solo, er, I mean Napoleon; if I help your friend Illya, would he, well, would he sing for me again?' She had smiled at his smile, lighting up his handsome, tired face.

'I will personally see to it, but I know he would be only too delighted to do so' he had said.

She got up and went over to the pharmacy boxes which were stored in a small room adjacent to the laboratory where she worked. The boxes were already closed, the drugs stacked neatly inside. She listened for a minute, wondering where the pharmacy technician was, before carefully lifting the lid of the first box. Inside were several different phials of drugs she was unfamiliar with, the whole box labelled 'Dabree'. She closed it immediately, lifting up the second lid. Inside were only a few phials; several marked 'Egret' and then two marked clearly 'Hoang'. She recognised them immediately. Something about this drug had always made her uneasy; the idea that someone's past could be wiped away disturbed her, even though they had assured her that this was being used to help seriously disturbed British servicemen and intelligence officers who needed 'a fresh start' as they put it. She thought suddenly of the Russian in the lift, his soft hair and penetrating blue eyes and the twinkly look he had when he was singing. There was no doubt that whatever was intended for him to be in the future, the man she had glimpsed in the lift would be lost for ever if this was used. Hurriedly, she marked the phials drawn from her lab coat with the name, and, taking the other identical capsules, replaced them and shut the lid, before walking rapidly from the room.

Safe in her own lab, she walked to the nearest sink, turned on the tap full blast, smashing the phials on the side before gathering the glass and carefully shooting it through the opening in the sharps bin beneath the bench.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Brent Martine ran round his room distractedly, pausing only to consult his watch and then utter deep and meaningful sighs. He had hoped to have the salon perfect for Miss Day's arrival at nine o'clock, but his colleague's phone call had left him having to do everything with no help whatsoever.

'Waylon Shand, where _are_ you?' he wailed to himself as he heard the outer door of the salon open and shut and footsteps, more than one person's, coming towards his room.

'Oh my God Way . . .' He stared at the two figures in front of him, both the man and the woman vaguely recognisable from somewhere but where he couldn't quite place. 'Excuse me, the salon is closed at the moment' he said archly, before staring at the man again and uttering a slight scream. 'Waylon?'

'In another life, yes' Napoleon replied, walking up to Martine and grasping his arm before marching him to the nearest chair and forcing him into it.

'Now listen Brent' he began, Martine noticing the bulge in his jacket and then forcing his gaze back towards Solo, 'you have about five minutes to make up your mind. You can help me and probably stay alive, or I can just take you out of the equation now. So what is it to be?' Brent flung his other hand to his mouth in a theatrical gasp.

'I know who you are! You're that top UNCLE agent they all go on and on about. No, don't tell me, let me guess . . you are . . .'

'Napoleon Solo, OK? Partner of the guy who doesn't like hairdressers, remember?' Martine looked almost comically horrified at his last statement.

'Oh my God, he's not here too, is he?' he exploded, holding his hands against his chest as if Kuryakin were about to burst out of the wardrobe doors behind him.

'Remember the English guy with the major hair problem?' Martine nodded vigorously, and then stared at Mitzi, who was starting to empty her suitcase of various items of makeup.

'No! it wasn't him! And you, you were . . . his wife!' Martine exclaimed, lying back on the chair like some Victorian heroine expecting to be fanned.

'Now it's make your mind up time, Brent' Napoleon continued, looking at his watch. 'In a moment, I can either tie you up and shove you in that closet, put a bullet through your head, or you can do something for the good guys for once in your life.' Martine suddenly sobered, sitting upright and watching Mitzi shaking out a couple of wigs.

'You know, Napoleon, by the way I _love_ that name; well, as I said Napoleon, as long as it doesn't involve violence of any kind, I'm in.' Napoleon sighed and then, sitting in the chair nearby, drew out his gun and loaded it.

'All I want you to do Brent, is to act your usual charming self. Leave the rest to us, OK?'

Napoleon rammed the clip of bullets into his gun and stood behind the door, Mitzi carrying most of her things through the hairdressing section to Waylon Shand's room the other side. He could see that Martine was agitated to the point of distraction but taking him out with a dart might arouse the suspicions of the guard. Looking at him as he flitted round the room, Napoleon wondered whether a tranquiliser dart might not be such a bad idea after all.

He signalled Martine to open the doors just before nine. He could hear him moving things in the hairdressing salon, before a familiar voice assailed him.

'Hello Brent darling. Sorry to make this so early, there's just such a lot to be done before my big appearance at midday.' Napoleon smirked slightly, Tess revealing the time of what was probably a luncheon followed by the meeting as he heard her coming nearer. Someone's hand was turning the handle of the door, but Tess continued talking as they approached. 'Clark had to put the big meeting back a couple of hours, due to some new guard being inducted or whatever they call it. Apparently he's going to be quite an asset to the _Einsatsgruppe X _'.

The name struck a sudden chill note in the conversation. Napoleon could remember the name connected to something Illya told him about what had happened to Ukrainians during the war. Immediately he remembered; the_ Einsatsgruppen_, Nazi SS mobile special operation groups dedicated to the murderous destruction of innocent people on a grand scale. He could hear Kuryakin saying calmly, 'they killed nearly thirty four thousand people in two days at _Babi Yar_; all individuals, all somebody's child' he had added, turning away and then changing the subject to happier, less unbearable things. Obviously the evil history of that word had not escaped Clark Hoang.

He heard Brent do as he had asked, and invite Therese to sit down in the hairdressing section.

'You don't need to sit here staring at me' she had added. 'Go and wait in there until we come in.' The handle was released momentarily before other footsteps approached and the door began to open.

The fact that he was not expecting death helped Napoleon to make it a quick and relatively painless procedure for the guard. He turned over the body, Mitzi joining him as she calmly took stock.

'I think he may be very slightly taller than you darling, but nothing one would notice' she began. His features are not too different either, so let me just take a photograph and then we can begin.' He was amazed at her calmness, as she used a small camera to record his face and the tattoo on his hand, the little machine immediately churning out several good quality images. Napoleon opened one of the many wardrobe doors in the room, and after clearing space and removing the guard's uniform, dragged the body in and shut the door, trying not to look at the absence of bulge in the man's genital area.

Martine was gently combing out Therese's wet hair as they walked through.

'Now, nothing drastic, otherwise we'll never hear the last of it' he whispered in her ear, to Brent's amazement.

'No, it won't be, but I have to have it straightened and a bit cut off to get it into this ultra-tight look he wants me to have with my new uniform' she said, raising her eyebrows.

'Do you know each other?' Martine demanded, stopping combing.

'You could say that. Brent, this is my sister-in-law, Therese Kuryakin. You know, wife of the man who doesn't like . . . .'

'Yes I know' Brent managed to choke out before looking incredulously at Tess.

'It's OK, he's really very sweet when you get to know him' she added, smiling at him encouragingly in the mirror.

Napoleon and Mitzi shut the door into his room, locking it behind them.

'Right darling' she said, drawing up a chair she had been wheeling from the salon to a mirror on the wall beside them. 'Sit down, and hey presto, you will be number, er, ah yes, number 7. I could put a double 0 in front of it for effect, eh darling?

xxxxxxxx

A small tape-recorder was placed next to Illya's bed, the guard carrying it plugging it in and then testing it before stepping back against the wall beside it. Hoang silently motioned one of the white-coated individuals behind, a man immediately stepping forward, carrying a small kidney shaped metal dish with a syringe nestling inside it.

'Well, Mr Kuryakin,' Hoang said in a slightly wearied voice, 'I suppose this is the last time I'll be using that name. But before you go, I would like to know a few things, the most important of which is, where is Mr Solo?'

Illya stared at him, a broad smile illuminating his face.

'Um, do you know, I'm not really sure where he is at the moment, and of course, even if I did know, you would be the very last person on earth I would tell.' Hoang's acid smile faded as he signalled the doctor forward.

'Oh well, never mind. You can be part of the team looking for him once you have been prepared, and I'm sure that with your skills, you'll soon find him' he added, fixing Illya with his gleaming green eyes. 'Of course there is also the matter of your other children. Thinking logically, your admirable ruse in New York presumably means that they are still alive somewhere. But don't worry, we will find them, and then perhaps we will decide what is to be done with them, not that matters like that will ever concern you again, _three_.'

Illya looked down at the bowl as a nurse grabbed his arm and swabbed it, laying it bare to the needle. He couldn't prevent his heartbeat picking up and beginning to race, knowing that his whole existence now depended upon his partner and the cooperation of a girl he had deceived so badly in a lift what seemed like a year previously. Strangely, as the needle went in and he felt the liquid begin to course through his veins, he wondered if this was not _Somatex_, just what was it? Remembering to fall back slightly and then to sit upright as he was being commanded to do, he realised, as the tape began, that he was absolutely, definitely and would remain forever Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin.

xxxxxxxxx

The uniform fitted rather well, Napoleon considered, looking at a barely recognisable him in the mirror. Mitzi had spared him the shaven head, giving him a very lifelike wig instead, salvaged from Illya's leftovers.

'Look, he was as bald as Roger' Mitzi said, pointing at a photo of the top of the guard's head, 'so I've just tinted the hair colour slightly to give you the same shade.' The facial characteristics were relatively easy to achieve for someone as skilled as Mitzi, the guard's chin being luckily rather similar to Napoleon's own, and the other features craftable with the aid of her skill with the latex. She brought up a little table for him to lay his hand whilst she copied the tattooed number on, minus the double 00. 'This will not come off unless I give you the magic ingredient, so don't worry about it' she said, her face becoming serious. 'I don't suppose they will be so kind to Illyusha.'

'He can have it removed when we get home' Solo said comfortingly, as a light knock sounded on the door.

Therese stood there, also barely recognisable from the girl he had held on the beach that morning. Apart from her hair, which was absolutely straight and plastered to her head in a kind of brutal French pleat, it was her clothing that both Napoleon and Mitzi gasped at. She was wearing a female version of the guard's black uniform, only made of some stretchy material and fashioned in one piece almost like a second skin. Very fine gold lines ran up the seams of the garment, the whole thing held together by an almost invisible zip at the back and finishing with a high neckline bordered in gold. Her advanced state of pregnancy only served to emphasise the lovely contours of her body, her long legs and her beautiful long neck.

'I know it looks like a glamorous wet suit, doesn't it?' she said, smirking at herself in the mirror and looking with difficulty at the smooth soft leather ankle boots she was wearing on her feet.

'Wow, no. It looks, well . . . amazing' Napoleon gasped, wondering what the Russian would think.

'It is incredible, darling!' Mitzi screamed, grabbing the arm of Brent as he came in.

'I know; she looks divine . . . but scary divine, don't you think?' Brent said, his eyes wide.

'No. Just scary.' They all stood transfixed for a moment as a black uniformed figure stood in the doorway.

'Illyusha!' Mitzi screamed even more loudly, running across and hugging him. Illya shut the door behind him and came into the room, glancing at Napoleon before going over and embracing his wife.

'Still alright?' he whispered into her ear, grimacing at the rock hard hair at the side of her head.

'Yes. Still alright' she murmured back, stroking his hair forward from its rather brushed back look. He glanced round again at Napoleon, seeing relief flooding over his features.

'It seems Petula must have succumbed to your charms' he said, looking Napoleon up and down and wondering where the other guard had been hidden.

'I'd like to take the credit, but I rather think it was your charms she succumbed to, comrade' Napoleon replied. 'And come to think of it, I had to agree to something which you need to do in order to show your gratitude.' Illya frowned, noticing that Tess was already smiling one of her teasing smiles at him.

'And just what did you agree to on my behalf?' he asked.

'Well, I think it was on the lines of a replay of whatever you sang in the elevator.' Tess began to smile widely, coming up behind the Russian and threading her arms through his and round his waist.

'What was it then? Let me guess . . ._Downtown_?' she murmured, biting his ear as he proved to Napoleon beyond a reasonable doubt that no surgery had been performed that morning.

'_Don't sleep in the subway'_ he almost growled, a distinct blush forming. 'And stop it before ….'

'Before what, _Corazon_?' Therese answered, turning him and kissing him, just his presence lifting her beyond the horrors of the last few days to a different place, if only for a few moments.

Napoleon cleared his throat, as Therese released Illya and Mitzi drew several chairs together in the room.

'Sorry to interrupt, but we need to talk about this afternoon. Incidentally, Illya, why are you here?' The Russian looked a little sheepish before saying,

'Well I took a wild guess that at least someone who I know might be here, and of course I have to, well, . . .' he put his hand to his head and looked apologetically at Tess, Brent Martine's eyes bulging at the thought of coming anywhere near him with scissors.

'Illya, oh no! Why does this always seem to happen to you?' Tess started, as Mitzi jumped up.

'Don't worry, I have the perfect solution for you darling' she said, running over to the table where all her various impedimenta were arranged. She returned holding in her hand what looked like a shaggy golden wig.

'I brought this in case Napoleon needed it' she said. 'We always leave them like this and then cut them on the subject' she said in a professional manner to Brent, who nodded, still staring somewhat nervously at the Russian. 'I'm sure it will be fine for you darling, and I can whizz all this off to make you look really hard, no?'

She grabbed Illya's hand, waving at them as she pulled him towards the hairdressing salon. Napoleon stood up and fetched some paper and pencils from a drawer on the other side of the room, the others listening with amusement at the sounds coming from the other side of the door. He had drawn a rough plan of the board room when they returned, Illya rubbing what remained of the blond wig, now a faint blond stubble over his head.

'Very hard' Napoleon offered, as his partner slumped down beside him.

'Well I preferred it before she started with those clippers' he replied frowning. 'Oh well at least I don't have to spend the next six weeks hiding somewhere while it grows out I suppose.' He looked at Therese and smiled, suddenly aware of just how large she seemed to be.

'Darling, have you had an examination lately' he began, her expression becoming almost furtive as he spoke. She hesitated before answering, 'ye-es' reminding him vividly of the twins' expressions when faced with any awkward situation they thought they might get out of. Illya got up and helped Therese to her feet before saying, 'we'll only be a moment, just start without us and then fill me in later.' He guided her out of the room and into the salon, the blond hair still lying on the floor round the chair he had occupied.

'Right, now tell me' he said, fixing her with a steady, steely gaze. She grasped onto the ledge in front of the mirror, looking at herself before turning back and putting her hands into his.

'I'm a little further on than we thought' she said, keeping his gaze.

'How much further on?'

'Thirty eight weeks' she gulped, biting her lip slightly. Illya put his hand to his head and uttered something inaudible, before putting his arm round her shoulders and pulling her towards him.

'And you didn't think I should know this information?'

'Illya, I thought you might be dead this morning. Compared to that, it didn't seem as important' Tess said, Illya noticing that she had no makeup on of any sort, her face rather tanned and just as beautiful without it.

'Well, we can't do anything about it at the moment, but you must promise me to be very, very careful. No running around or anything, and definitely no silly attempts on your part to do away with Hoang, right?

'Right.' He took her hand and led her back to the other room, the others looking up with various degrees of worry as they sat down.

'Tess is a little farther on with her pregnancy than it seems anybody else realised, so we need to factor in a fairly sedate escape plan' Illya said, looking at Napoleon. 'I have to be going soon, as after my haircut, I have to start looking for a dangerous UNCLE agent who is apparently on the loose somewhere near here. And then,' he said, raising his eyebrows, 'I have to go and disarm the devices I set and bring them to my new employer.'

Napoleon sat back and, reaching into the pocket of his trousers, drew out Illya's watch.

'That's a shame you have to go and do that, as I managed to lift this from that sorry pile of clothing you were wearing the other night' he said, handing it over to his partner. Illya smiled and exchanged the watch for the one he was wearing, also a Rolex of a similar design, but not with the features UNCLE had installed for him.

'Um, I may have something that will help you' Tess interrupted, heaving herself up and walking over to the other side of the room, where she had left a large handbag sitting on the chaise longue. She lifted the bag up and walked back, plonking it by the table, before withdrawing three explosive devices and laying them neatly on top of the map. 'Any use?' she said, looking at the now unreadable expression on her husband's face.

'For a pacifist, you get up to some unusual activities' he said, smiling a little as he inspected them.

'I'm not a pacifist Illya, I just believe in peace' she said simply, rubbing her back to his consternation.

'Presumably Hoang hasn't seen the explosives you set, so …..'

'As long as no-one is looking over my shoulder, I should be able to feign disconnection and present these to him as my first completed mission' he said, rather gaily, getting up and ruminating in the wardrobes before bringing a small black shoe box over and putting the explosives inside. 'This will have to do for now' he said. 'I'll take them back to my room later, after I've had breakfast.' He looked round at the amazed expressions on their faces, before continuing, 'Apparently, one of the perks of my job is that I can have free meals wherever I like, whenever I like as long as it doesn't interfere with my duties. I thought you should have known that, er, '_seven_'.

'Well actually, I haven't had the same induction programme as you, '_three_', but seeing you're going, I may very well join you.'

Tess groaned, and hauled herself up.

'That is so typical of those two' she said to Brent. 'Now what is happening to the rest of us while you two feed your faces downstairs?'

'You are going to lie down' Illya said firmly, holding her elbow, and then Steve should be coming over from Hoang's house on his way to obtain supplies for the house, which will give him time to take Brent, Mitzi and our lovely Petula to the police station at Somerset where you will wait for us and where he will brief the Bermudian police on their clean-up duties later this afternoon. And Mitzi, please inform the police that we may have need of a doctor and an ambulance as well' he continued, glancing sideways at Tess.

'OK darling. Off you go boys, so you can explain to Illyusha how you are going to get rid of all those horrible people and make sure Theresa is safe and sound,_ ja_?'

'You'd think she was running the mission' Napoleon murmured, as he escorted Therese out of the salon.

'Isn't she?' Illya said, before nodding to them both and disappearing down the stairs.

'I'll take you back and then join my new comrade for breakfast' Napoleon said, pressing the lift button. 'And remember, leave it to us, just play your part and then after lunch, Steve will take you to the police station OK?

'Perhaps' Tess said. 'Somehow, things never quite go to plan, though, do they?'

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Although the humidity was already high and the temperature climbing, Tess found the suit strangely comfortable. Napoleon promised to be back after her rest, and despite not liking to be told, she was grateful to lie down in the air conditioned room, trying not to dwell too much on whether the pendulum of luck had swung in their favour or not. She kicked off the boots and lay on the bed. She knew from her previous pregnancies that the baby was now engaged in her pelvis and could be born at any time. Hoang had given her the suit to wear that morning, coming into her room almost immediately after she had returned from the beach.

'Was it pleasant in the water?' he said, laying the clothes on the chair.

'Exhilarating' she had said, wrapping a towel round her head as she fingered the garment. Unlike the last time they had lived together, he had made no attempt to touch her in the days she had spent in his house. She felt within her that some plan was forming, but despite Arshavin's death, still remained unsure of what he had envisaged for her future, if she was to have a future beyond the birth of the baby.

'When you return after your visit to the Spa, I need to discuss some things with you' he said. She had shrugged and listened as he spelled out exactly how she was to look for the meeting. 'The rest can wait until I see you later' he had said, before leaving her as suddenly as he had arrived. She dozed off, her thoughts staying with her husband, his smell and physical presence remaining with her as she drifted into sleep.

The sound of footsteps outside the room and two men talking woke her, Therese immediately aware of Napoleon's deeper richer voice, and Hoang's higher, sharper tones.

'Good. Wait there and then you can conduct Miss Day to the meeting when she is ready' she heard Hoang say before the door opened and he came in. He made no attempt to assist her from the bed, Tess feeling a sudden dull ache beginning in her back as she stood in front of him.

'Would you mind picking up my boots?' she said, glancing at herself in the mirror, her hair still rigid like rock round her head.

'Get 7 to do it. I'm sure he'll put them on for you as well' he replied, walking to the window. Tess sighed and followed him, staring out at the unchanging scene of manicured perfection in front of them. He turned round and looked at her, suddenly putting his hand on her belly before removing it with a slow smile a bit like Tess imagined a lizard might attempt.

'Summer, after this afternoon, if all goes to plan, and I cannot imagine it will not, there will be some changes made to this organisation' he began. 'What I would like to know is whether you wish to become part of those changes or not. Bear in mind that I am only interested in total commitment, and that commitment sometimes involves sacrifices.'

Tess exhaled, wondering whether Napoleon could hear the conversation.

'I thought I demonstrated my commitment' she said blankly.

'You did' he said, 'in fact you more than lived up to the challenge I set you. But what I want to know, Summer, is whether you want to be part of my organisation, or just someone who lives off it.' Tess summoned up the most evil smile she could muster before saying,

'It depends what position you're offering me, and what exactly the sacrifices are' she said, staring at him. He continued to look out of the window, Therese knowing that thoughts which she didn't even want to contemplate were no doubt filling his head as he stared into the distance.

'The guards here are part of an elite force, my own '_Einsatsgruppe_' he said, a satisfied smile coming to his lips. After today, this force will be expanded to include women like yourself as well as other men who are prepared to make a commitment or, who through chemical means can be used to serve. Beneath them will be organisations like THRUSH which, though moderately successful in their endeavours, have never really come near to the kind of domination I intend to have. Of course, great world leaders have their consorts, but in the new world order, our force will be without the constraints of religious morality or even of outdated notions of sex and partnerships.'

Therese could see he was getting into his stride, his eyes glinting as he turned away from the window towards her.

'Have you heard me talk about 'gender reduction', Summer?' he said, Tess' stomach heaving slightly at the words.

'I know there are people who believe they are the opposite sex and seek therapy and ultimately surgery to help them.' He stared at her, a withering look coming to his face.

'How understanding of you. No, this is not that pathetic course of action. I am talking about the removal of sexual gender; a new race, I suppose, of people freed from the burden of _him_ and _her_' he said. 'The guards have taken that step, as I did when I left Li-Hua Bolt behind and became Clark Hoang. Of course for the sake of outmoded ideas the world still clings to, I had to assume a sexual gender, but now I think of myself as without it. In my future, I will be 'one' and you, dear Summer, if you desire it, will become 'two', working with me to create an empire of discipline and order.'

Therese froze before him, her thoughts throwing up images of another madman, ranting to a vast sea of faces, all chanting his name over and over again. She thought back to her first meeting with him, then a young girl rather than the sham man he now was, and of the force that she had used to pull Tess towards her for that first, fateful kiss. A deep sadness flooded into her for this wretched creature, now losing his grip upon all that Tess held beautiful and important in the world, in order to rule it .

'What happens to this one?' she said suddenly, the ache in her back continuing as a rhythmic backdrop to the bizarre conversation between them.

'She will join the others in due course. You needn't worry yourself as to her upbringing. I have a nurse who will take charge of her from birth, so that you can make a choice as to where your future lies.'

'Good. So, if you are going to be 'one' and I am going to be 'two', who will be 'three?' she asked, knowing the answer from the bandage covering her husband's hand. Hoang smiled; that same reptilian look that Tess found as uncomfortable as it was cold.

'Oh 'three' ultimately will be the director of the '_Einsatsgruppe X'_. Believe me, Summer, you will not be disappointed by his calibre, I can assure you.'

xxxxxxxxx

The Police Station at Somerset was easily located on the long street that ran through the village, the small community also able to boast a couple of banks, a Post Office and a smattering of restaurants to satisfy tourists on their way to view the sights of this end of Bermuda. Anya had slept fitfully through the night, rising early to assist Allegra when the children awoke. After gasping at the clock on the bedside table, she had hurried into the girl's room, only to find five heads turning towards her as she opened the door. The three Robinson children had already achieved what she had worried about all night, namely to reassure the Kuryakin girls that they were finally safe.

'Relax, hon' Allegra's mellow voice sounded behind her; 'they'll be fine.'

She had waited patiently for a while, ensuring that the girls understood what had happened and watching them troop off down to the beach after breakfast as if the horrors of the last few days had been sloughed off like an unwanted skin. Even Pascale's perpetually worried expression seemed to melt as the eldest Robinson boy, a tall, long legged child of her age called Nicholas, thrust some snorkelling equipment in her hands and led the assembled rabble forward, the Robinsons' housekeeper following behind with a large basket of food guaranteed to sustain them for the morning.

John Robinson seemed to have an innate sense of Anya's needs, bringing the car round to the front after breakfast, and then driving her into Hamilton without comment. As they arrived at the small ferry dock, he thrust a ticket into her hand.

'The ferry will take you to Watford Bridge, where they'll be someone waiting to take you to the Police Station' he said, leaning out of the car window slightly as she stood looking in. 'Give this to the officer in charge; he'll know what to do. Then I guess the rest is up to you.'

'Thank you' she began falteringly. 'I know that Illya Nikovetch will thank you too . . when he can' she had added. He nodded, then revved the car's engine and pulled away, leaving her standing alone.

The ferry pulled away into what they called 'The Great Sound', a wide expanse of exquisite water surrounded by a collection of islands linked by bridges and edged by pristine, fairy tale beaches. Anya could only imagine what had passed since she had been drugged and entombed in the box by two guards serving Hoang, but she knew that in some way she could still be of service and repay those in UNCLE who had saved her life and given her a future. She allowed the natural beauty of the place to wash over her, clearing her mind of what had gone before, and preparing herself for what must come.

She was shown into a room at the back of the Station by a uniformed officer looking remarkably like those she had seen on the streets of London. Three wildly different people looked up from the chairs they were sitting on in various degrees of stressfulness. She recognised the girl from the UNCLE section dealing with disguise, and also the man from the Spa with the gushing manner and the amazingly dapper clothes, but as to the girl with the long black frizzy hair, she had no idea who she might be.

'Anya!' Mitzi cried, greeting her like a long lost relative. 'This is Mr Martine from the Spa, who was working with Napoleon, and then this is Petula, who is a pharmacist and who has been wonderfully helpful to us.'

Anya slightly stood to attention. 'Lieutenant Colonel Anya Markova' she declared, holding out her hand, the girl called Petula giving her a shocked stare before extending her hand rather slowly towards her.

'_Another_ Russian?' she said to Mitzi.

'Oh _ja_, Anya is an old friend of Illyusha,' Mitzi confided, before searching in her bag for a large envelope, which she drew out and spread onto the table in the room.

'Napoleon gave me this for you' she said, smoothing out what Anya saw was a map of what looked like an underground area between the Spa and the main buildings of the complex. 'He said to tell you that they will be at the meeting here' she jabbed her finger at the part of the main building marked 'board room' at twelve noon. After the meeting there is to be a lunch party here', she moved her finger over to the Spa building. 'He thinks that they will go there via the underground area, so it might be helpful if you are somewhere there' she said, finally pointing to the area immediately underneath the Spa. 'Brent can help you get into the Spa with his card, but from then on, you are 'on your own' as they say' she finished with a certain flourish.

'You're not going in there are you? Petula said, an expression filled with fear flooding her face.

'Yes, but perhaps you can tell me what you know about it' Anya replied, smiling kindly at Petula and then sitting down next to her. Petula drew the drawing towards, her, digging into her pocket for a pencil.

'When I went back last night with Illya' she began, looking steadily at Anya, 'he worked out something about the bridges across that water. Apparently, they are capable of being lowered and raised. There's a control here,' she said, making a mark on the map with her pencil, 'and he thought there may have been one at the other end' she added, pointing towards the exit from the board room.

'But why would anyone want to lower the bridges into that horrible lake' Mitzi said, shuddering and clutching Brent, who obviously had no idea that the underground cavern even existed.

'Someone who's completely out of their tiny mind, honey' Brent interrupted, giving an equally theatrical look back to Mitzi. They were interrupted by a sharp knock followed immediately by the door opening and a large Police officer entering the room.

'Are you ready, ma'am?' he said in rich dark tones, as Anya got up and folded the map before placing it into the small rucksack she was carrying.

'Yes' she said simply, 'but there are number of items which I was wondering whether you could supply me with.' She took a pad and scribbled out a short list, handing it to the officer, who withdrew immediately without comment. Mitzi got up and hugged her before Anya, with a polite nod to the others, left the room.

'Oh my God, I hope they come back alright' Brent exclaimed, jumping up and running to the window. 'Waylon was absolutely gorgeous, but I do think Napoleon is well, _divine_.' Petula stared at him in amazement, before sinking back onto the chair, her thoughts not on dark-haired men.

'Mr Kuryakin' she began after a few moments contemplation, 'do you know him well?' Mitzi sighed a little, settling back into the chair next to Petula's.

'I would say that only two people, _nein_, three people know him really well' she said quietly. Petula frowned.

'Oh, and who are they?'

'Well, they are the three people he loves most; his partner and best friend; his mother, and of course, his wife. Napoleon and he, they have a _seelekameradschaft, _a soul friendship, if you understand?' Petula nodded, something obviously making her downcast as Mitzi continued to talk. 'His mother_, ja,_ she is very like him, and I think they have been through a lot together those two, when he was a child. And then of course there is Theresa.'

Mitzi realised then why Petula looked so mournful.

'I . . I didn't realise he was married' she said. 'I suppose all that stuff in the lift was just play-acting then.'

'He had to do his job, darling, but believe me he wouldn't have wanted to hurt you. I can assure you that he is a gentleman' Mitzi continued, Brent Martine giving her a histrionic wide-eyed stare from behind Petula's back as she spoke.

'So his wife . . .'

'Is a saint, darling; believe me, it's not easy living with those two, and I only work with them!' Mitzi rushed on, trying to cheer up the other woman as kindly as she could. 'Perhaps you will get to meet her and the children soon, you will like them, I know.' She could see Brent was now a little more interested in the conversation, his face somehow revealing that he was smarter than he first appeared.

'Oh for God's sake tell her' he exploded, another wildly exaggerated expression dancing around his face.

'Darling, you're not making much sense' Mitzi said, hoping vainly he might shut up before he said any more.

'Summer Day of course!' he almost shouted. 'Even I couldn't believe she would shack up with that creep and when I said as much to Waylon, er, I mean Napoleon, he kept fobbing me off.' He sat back, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.

Petula sat forward, her head in her hands, inconsolable.

'But she's . . . _horrible_' she said into her hands, a kind of sob following the words. Mitzi glared at Brent, and then began to smooth Petula's wiry hair.

'No darling, she's only playing a part, a very dangerous part and a very brave one too. She is not like that, please believe me.' She sat back, and looked at her watch, praying that whatever was happening at the complex, that it happened soon, soon enough to free her from spending any more time than was absolutely necessary with these two.

She got up suddenly, grabbing her bag and pressed the button which would summon an officer from somewhere in the depths of the building.

' I want you to look after Petula while I'm gone' she said, looking at Brent. 'I need to help them, you see, so stay here and try not to make Petula cry please' she added, as a burly policeman came in.

She was in time to see Anya just about to get in a small unmarked jeep driven by what was obviously a plain clothed officer. Ignoring Anya's expression, she ran up, jumping in beside her.

'There's room for _eine kleine_, isn't there?'

xxxxxxxx

Illya placed the three explosive devices carefully on Hoang's desk, lining them up perfectly, before standing back slightly to attention.

'Did you have any difficulties extracting them?' Hoang said, after regarding them for a few moments.

'No, I felt as if I knew where they might be hidden' Illya replied. 'Whoever laid them was skilful and imaginative in his work' he added, aware that Hoang was looking at him and keeping his expression suitably leaden.

'Oh yes, skilful and imaginative; that would describe him well' Illya heard him murmur, before Hoang stood up and came round to Illya's side of the desk.

'An excellent first mission' he said. 'I'm sure that after this afternoon, you will accomplish even greater ones.' He walked away from Illya towards the window.

'Three, I would like you to draw up some training plans for the _Einsatsgruppen, _which we will begin to implement almost immediately after we leave here in conjunction with my associate in Europe. Bear in mind that we will look to recruit both men and women, in fact Miss Day will very soon be our first female member, after the birth and subsequent surgery of course.'

Illya's heart raced slightly at the implications of Hoang's last statement. The fact that Tess was not going to be killed should have made him happy, but the linking of the birth with some kind of mutilating surgery filled him with disgust.

'Surgery?' he said, looking calmly towards Hoang's back. Hoang spun round, his face an unpleasant mixture of sadism and superiority.

'Why of course' he replied. When we reach our new headquarters, she will undergo gender reduction in the same way as all the others who serve our new order, including yourself.'

'Of course' Illya nodded. 'I do not wish to be different in any way to the others.' Hoang came up to the desk, facing him, as he pulled open a drawer and began to remove some papers from it.

'But you are different, Three. You are the elite, and with myself and Two in command, the world will be a different place, eh?' Hoang reached down, bringing up a soft leather briefcase into which he rammed the papers.

'Now, I would like you to accompany Seven and Miss Day. When we reach the board room, Seven will join the other guards, and I would like you to stay with Miss Day in the anteroom just beyond; you know, the one with the entrance to the underground area.' Illya nodded, already working out why Hoang wanted him and Tess to wait there. 'I will call for you just after the meeting begins' Hoang continued, picking up the suitcase. Illya moved swiftly towards the door and opened it.

Strangely, he found adopting this role very easy, the falling back into the old Illya of pre-Tess and even pre-Napoleon days, the one who had vowed to subjugate his own personal feelings to the will of the ones he served. In some ways UNCLE was no different to the Russian Navy; a commitment to duty and service which came before all other wishes and hopes. As Hoang swept past him, he shut the door and forced himself to smile.

_You are not like that now_ he heard himself murmur, before turning and walking up the stairs towards Tess' room.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

They walked the short distance from the house to the main building largely in silence, Therese walking loftily ahead of the two men. Illya was not entirely sure, but sensed that she was hiding something from him again, judging from the minute changes in her expression every so often.

'When we get to this room, remember that it is almost certainly wired for sound and vision' he had told her. No doubt Hoang wants to show us off before the assembled throng without actually having to say in front of us who we were before he took us and gave us a whole new life' he said, squeezing her hand encouragingly.

'But if we don't know who we were in another life, why should that matter?' Tess said, lying back on the bed while Napoleon put on her boots.

'It wouldn't, from what I understand of the drug' Napoleon had said, 'but he's just playing games . . . .'

'And giving them a stark warning of what happens when he doesn't like you anymore' Illya added grimly. He had gazed at her as she sat up, the hair still almost sealed to her head like a helmet.

'What on earth did that man do to your hair?' Tess had stared at herself in the mirror, the severe style only serving to accentuate the beauty of her face and long, elegant neck.

'Don't worry, it'll wash out. I think it's the nearest thing to making me look like you darling' she had said, unwittingly drawing Illya back to his last, chilling conversation with Hoang. He forced himself not to look at the glorious curve of her breasts under the suit she was wearing, turning away instead and staring at Napoleon.

'By the way, I'd try to find tighter fitting underwear and keep all lewd thoughts at bay' he murmured in his partner's direction. Napoleon glanced down, suddenly aware of the bulges his own body was making in the fairly snug fitting uniform.

'Hm. Well, considering who we'll be guarding, comrade, that won't be difficult once we get into the board room. I'll just keep my eyes off the only woman worth looking at' he replied, smiling at Therese and opening the door for them to leave.

As they neared the reception area, it was not difficult to sense a feeling of tension rising in the atmosphere of the place. The THRUSH Central members were mingling rather anxiously in the room that only the night before had been full of rather more relaxed partygoers, a number of Janus employees serving aperitifs and tiny, delicate _tapas_ to the assembled guests.

'Don't eat anything, even though you'd like to, and just look to your right now' Napoleon whispered out of the side of his mouth, as they moved through the room, Solo counting the number of guards who suddenly appeared as if they had just stepped out of the walls.

'What is she doing there?' Illya said, his gaze returning to the doors of the board room as Mitzi approached.

Therese gratefully took a few interesting looking tapas from the plate, managing to avert her eyes from Mitzi as Illya, declining the food, got closer.

'I thought you were safe' he hissed, catching hold of Therese's arm.

'Hiding in plain sight darling' she said, never letting her smile drop. 'Us agents have to stick together, _nein_?'

'You are not an agent and Rudi will do something horrible and permanent to me if anything goes wrong' he muttered, beginning to guide Therese to the Board Room as Mitzi stepped back.

They watched Illya and Tess until they disappeared into the next room, Napoleon almost instantly aware of another person taking their place.

'Well, I'd have never believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.' The whiff of cigar smoke told him who was standing there. Anton Korbel took a deep inward breath again, and blew out the smoke in a way that suggested to Napoleon he was having mixed feelings about what he had just seen.

Napoleon stared at him, forcing himself to look confused by Korbel's last statement.

'Oh, that guy there, what is his name?'

'Three.'

'Three, eh? I remember him well when he was an UNCLE agent; real clever, with a nasty streak a mile wide. Now what I'd really like to see is that bastard Solo lined up beside him. That would truly make my day.' Napoleon sighed, feeling the gun in the holster on his shoulder. They had all been instructed to wear their weapons visibly, and it was hard not to want to reach for it and put it right into Korbel's fat gut.

'I'm sure once the new order is established, this Solo you talk about will be an easy target' he replied icily. Korbel smiled, grabbing another load of tapas as they passed.

'You think?' he said, stuffing the food in his mouth and giving Napoleon the kind of look that suggested otherwise, before wandering off towards another small knot of Central men and women gathered near the door.

Napoleon took his place against the back wall, signalling with his eyes towards Steve, who he noticed had been drafted in to serve drinks before the meeting. Steve glided up, lingering slightly as he collected a few glasses from a table near to where Solo was standing.

'Everything in hand?' Napoleon murmured keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the Board Room doors, which had now been closed again after Illya and Therese's departure.

'Uh-huh. Our friends from Morgan's point will be joining us at fourteen hundred hours' Steve replied _sotto voce_, moving away immediately and disappearing through the other door. Napoleon frowned before remembering the US Naval Base just minutes away. He thought about the two buildings with the underground passage between them, picturing Korbel and his unholy group caught between them like rats in a trap. He had bargained on Hoang's guards being centred on the main building, the Janus staff in the Spa being less of an immediate danger and therefore easily dealt with by the Bermudian police force.

He had discussed the plan briefly with Illya in Therese's bedroom, the two of them agreeing that whatever happened afterwards, it was essential that the meeting take place.

'We have to know what his plans are with regards to the mumps virus, and if possible, where his new headquarters is going to be, just in case . . .' he had said. Kuryakin interrupted him, his voice deadly quiet.

'He cannot escape' he had said, his eyes glittering slightly, the way they always did when he didn't have his long fringe of hair to soften the expression now hardening his features.

'Whatever way they run they'll be caught' Napoleon had said confidently; 'your duty is to Tess. You owe her, Illya; we all do.' Kuryakin looked back across the room at his wife, standing staring out of the open window as they talked.

'I know' he said simply, before pulling out his gun from its holster, checking the clip and shoving it back.

There was a sudden flurry of excitement as the door to the Board Room opened. Napoleon moved forward with the other guards designated to enter, after the THRUSH Central personnel had filed in and taken their places down the long deeply polished table dominating the room.

At least the temperature was cool, the air conditioning units working overtime to ensure that the atmosphere, if not the mood of the audience, was a few degrees higher than icy. Napoleon took his place between two of the large French windows, the blinds drawn down low creating shadows across the room only relieved by the light of occasional table lamps and a brightly lit screen at one end, before which, glancing at some papers, stood Clark Hoang, obviously assuming the place of Chairman, even though, as far as Napoleon knew, it was Edvard Zoltan who held that position, at least nominally.

He looked up as the others came in, his face radiating a look of intense pride and satisfaction, as if he knew that now nothing or no-one could stand between him and the achievement of his goals. Napoleon glanced up and down at the assembled meeting; it was surprising how many women sat there. Of the six, half were female. Napoleon smirked slightly at the thought that, compared to UNCLE, THRUSH were ahead in terms of female equality. He wondered how long it would take until a woman sat in Waverly's chair for example.

There seemed to be no stenographer present to record the notes of the meeting, but Napoleon saw that a bank of equipment to Hoang's left included a tape recorder, now being tested by another guard, a tall pale man with hair so pale it was almost invisible on his head as he bent over to adjust the tape on top of the machine. At each of the places a set of papers had been deposited, together with the usual meeting paraphernalia of water and notepads which Napoleon was familiar with. To the outsider if one ignored the ominous presence of the guards, one could believe this meeting was like any other held in offices and factories throughout the world.

Hoang suddenly tapped his fingers on the table, the metallic clang of the wide gold ring he was wearing bringing the nervous chattering to a sudden and distinct halt.

'Shall we begin?' he said abruptly, the mood of the meeting immediately set by his precise tones and lack of welcome. 'Please refer to your agenda' he said, the others immediately swivelling their gaze downwards. 'After the vote, lunch will be served at the Spa.' Napoleon leaned forward imperceptibly, just able to see the piece of paper Dr Dabree was in the process of bringing closer to her thick lensed glasses. At the top he read

The way ahead – an introduction and an example.

Napoleon could quite easily guess what this rather opaque sentence might mean, as the screen behind them brightened a little. Hoang began to speak, the same mantra he had given to Therese when Napoleon had stood listening outside the door, Napoleon forcing himself to concentrate throughout and not to betray any of the disgust he felt for Hoang's version of what the future of humanity might hold. He could see some of the Central elite taking notes, particularly Korbel, who surprised him by his ability to write in shorthand, his hand flashing across the page as Hoang spoke.

Eventually, he stopped talking and turned, nodding at the blond guard sitting in front of the bank of machines.

'As I said in my introduction', Hoang continued, 'actions are more indicative of what can be achieved than words, I'm sure you'll agree.' The screen immediately flickered into life, two figures immediately filling the screen.

Napoleon forced himself not to react in any way to the scene before him. Therese sat by a small occasional table, a magazine in her hands, a look of consummate boredom on her face, whilst behind her, Illya stood almost motionless against the wall. A ripple of horrified fascination seemed to pass over those watching, Dr Egret managing a cruel smile as she gazed at the silent figures in front of her.

'No doubt you are familiar with at least one of these two' Hoang began, staring at the screen with the rest of them. 'Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin, late of UNCLE, Section Two, Number Two. One of UNCLE's top agents in the world, and a man of immense intelligence, skill and, what shall we say, native cunning. Now imagine, dear friends, all those gifts put at the service of our new enterprise, _permanently_. I won't bore you with the pharmacological minutiae; you can read about it in your notes if you so wish, but I can assure you, that with the drug _Somatex_, the man that was Kuryakin is now ours to keep for as long as we determine, to do exactly what we determine.'

They all continued to stare at the screen, as if they needed time to come to terms with what had just been said.

'I have to ask it, Clark, but, is he absolutely _safe_?' Everyone looked round at the woman called Vasquez, whom Napoleon had only ever seen in an UNCLE file, but whom Illya had had personal dealings with. He remembered the Russian telling him that he had had to tape over her mouth after she had tried to bite him wearing poisonous lipstick. Looking at her now, her large overblown lips covered in a particularly gruesome shade of coral, he could imagine the need.

'Yes, he's perfectly safe, Miss Vasquez' Hoang replied, as Therese got up, rubbing her back, and flinging the magazine at Illya's face.

'Rub my back' she said, her voice at once loud and rude, 'instead of standing there like a dummy.' Napoleon saw Zoltan raise his eyebrows and smirk, as Illya walked over, and as Therese lowered herself onto a low chaise-longue, sat down beside her and began to oblige, a look of complete detachment like a mask on his face.

'Now in case you are not aware, this is Marie-Therese Kuryakin, wife of the man you see before you, and mother of four of his children. In her former life, Therese was imbued with all the usual characteristics of an intelligent and beautiful woman subjugated by outdated moral and theological beliefs into a life of domestic drudgery usually referred to as Christian marriage. The use of the drug _Somatex_ has liberated her from all that, and as you see, I took the blank canvas that was Marie-Therese Carmel Kuryakin and created a self-obsessed sociopath with a voracious appetite for control.'

'And what about the children? Are you going to give them the drug too?' the Japanese man interrupted, the others only momentarily diverted from their rapt attention to the screen.

'Unfortunately, trials have shown the drug to be less effective with children, but you will be pleased to know that with the help of Dr Zoltan, the two Kuryakin girls will be beginning their new lives at the THRUSH school at Floreşti very soon. As to the boys, it was thought at first that their lives should be terminated, but owing to technical problems, Solo and Kuryakin were able to prevent our agents completing their mission. However, a new squad has been sent to retrieve them and the Solo boy, and they will be sent to the new training school we are establishing. The adopted son and any other relatives of course will be terminated as they are not considered of value to our programme.'

A picture of Pablo immediately flooded into Napoleon's memory; the child he thought was dead and had seemingly come to life in his father's arms. He was relieved that Illya had not heard the sickening statement, but the import of Hoang's words induced in him a longing that this would be over very soon, a sudden and uncomfortable need to return to his little boy and wife dominating his thoughts.

Hoang reached over towards a microphone and switched it on.

'Three, bring Miss Day into the Boardroom.' Napoleon watched as Illya immediately relinquished his rhythmic movements on Tess' back, and rather indecorously hauled her to a standing position. She gave him another haughty look before brushing past him and heading for the door, Illya following behind. There was a slight flutter as they came through the door, before Hoang pushed a chair towards Therese and Illya took his place by the wall on the other side of Hoang, the oriental looking master between two blond servants.

For the next half hour Hoang dominated proceedings, outlining the nature and scope of both the new drugs, and most importantly, the control of world fertility by the mutant strain of the mumps virus.

'Very successful trials have been conducted, and a larger trial in New York was only prevented by UNCLE at the last moment' he began. However, we now have the quantity and organisational ability to conduct a much larger trial, which should then lead to a world fertility crisis in due course. Under this complex, as you have seen, are enough semen to offer the developing nations of the world a solution to their problem . . . at a price' he concluded, unaware, as Napoleon was, of a minute smile drifting across Kuryakin's face. Napoleon wondered what on earth had made Illya risk his utterly machine like persona for that one instant.

'And where will these trials take place?' Korbel suddenly burst in, rousing Napoleon into concentration again on the screen, which had now changed to a large, world map. A series of three red arrows pointed clearly to the targets.

'We've chosen three islands, all of whom have economic significance' Hoang droned on. Napoleon could see Illya turn his head fractionally, the automaton look now firmly in place.

'Long Island is the smallest of the three but will awaken the Americans to the threat posed if the virus becomes potent across the mainland' Hoang said, pointing at the long strip Solo knew so well. 'Great Britain has a political and economic significance beyond its geographic size, and then of course there is Honshu, the most populous island in Japan, and the place of my birth.' There was an uncomfortable silence at his words, Korbel stubbing out his cigar as if he had heard enough.

Edvard Zoltan stood up suddenly, the others jerked out of their various thoughts by the noise of his chair on the floor.

'I think that we've heard enough to take a vote now, ladies and gentlemen' he said. 'To my mind, Mr Hoang's plans offer us the greatest opportunity to dominate the future of our planet for the last ten years. I'm sure that if we elect him to lead us, we can relax in the knowledge that the other, minor details of organisation will be ably taken care of.' There was a buzz of conversation round the table, Hoang sitting silently, his gaze passing over the various THRUSH personnel as they conversed in rather less than hushed tones. Napoleon risked a glance towards Illya, who was staring at Tess. As Napoleon regarded her, he could see that she was making very slight gasping noises, her face a study of concentrated repression. He looked up again at Illya and immediately understood the nature of the Russian's concern.

Suddenly, the chatting was silenced by the scraping of Anton Korbel's chair.

'Hang on a mo' he began, Napoleon sensing a sudden frisson of fear spreading round the assembled group. 'There is quite a deal of unanswered questions here' he continued, 'especially the role these guys are going to play in your so-called new order.' He jerked his thumb at the row of guards now bristling behind him, Hoang's demeanour unchanging throughout.

'May I answer that' Hoang intervened, smiling without opening his mouth. 'The guards are an elite force, as you can see from our latest recruit' he added, nodding slightly to Illya. 'In the fight against organisations like UNCLE, extreme measures must be taken to ensure success. It is simply not good enough to pit ignorant untrained men against agents of the calibre of, say, Napoleon Solo for example. No, in order to defeat your enemy, you have to be ruthless and efficient, and the agents of your will must be able to carry out your will in exactly that ruthless and efficient way. If you doubt my word, Mr Korbel, perhaps you could discuss it with Dr Zoltan here; I think you'll find his wartime experiences will remind you of what can be achieved with those kind of '_einsatsgruppen_' at one's disposal.

Napoleon might have missed the effect of Hoang's words on Illya had he not been looking at him as he spoke. He saw Illya stare at Zoltan before his face seemed to blanch then flush all within moments. Napoleon discerned something in his partner's eyes that he had witnessed on very few occasions and only then when something intensely personal had affected him. A transient smile, and now a nightmare memory; and both unable to be communicated to his partner, at least for now.

'I think we'll take it with a show of hands, don't you think?' Zoltan said immediately, getting up. The others, hardened criminals and lunatics that they were, looked only too aware of their position. Very quickly the three women raised their hands, followed immediately by Zoltan and the Japanese.

'I'm sorry Ed, but I just don't buy it' Korbel said, picking up his cigar and relighting it as the others looked on with varying degrees of astonishment, the Japanese man called Kenta looking wildly from side to side before, with a fixed smile, he stared unseeingly ahead of him.

'You are entitled to your opinions' Hoang said, the unnerving smile still attached magnet like to his face. 'I hope however, that you will continue to express your interesting ideas over lunch since they appear to be in the minority here.'

There was a moment's pause, enough for the knocking at the door leading to reception area to sound louder than it should have. The eyes of all were instantly drawn towards it as a guard slipped through and approached Hoang. Unfortunately Illya was not near enough to hear the conversation, but Hoang had not reacted in any way, only reaching down for a pad and scribbling something rapidly upon it, before standing and gazing steadily at Tess.

Illya glanced at Napoleon for a fraction of a second as they swept out, heading into the room where he had stood with Tess as the meeting had begun. He watched Hoang take Tess' arm, waiting for the others to leave the Boardroom before he spoke.

'Fifteen, Eighteen and Twenty two are to remain here until relieved at fourteen hundred hours. Nine, Thirty and Twenty five please prepare the house for our departure. Three and Seven, accompany Miss Day and I to the Spa.' Napoleon noticed Hoang lean towards Illya and murmur something into his ear, the Russian nodding curtly before standing stiffly until they had passed.

'What was that?' Napoleon managed to say as they fell into line together.

'Well, as you've probably worked out, I don't think Mr Korbel will be joining us for lunch' he replied, raising his eyebrows.

CHAPTER FORTY

There was no time to ask Illya about what Napoleon had observed before they were plunged into the melee of the room. Mitzi suddenly appeared, serving another round of drinks, this time a superior Champagne which Napoleon groaned inwardly at having to refuse. He stood back from the others to allow Mitzi nearer to him and away from them.

'Get out of here when you've finished and find something to do at the Spa. And before you go there, get them to send an Obstetrician stat, OK?' he murmured, Mitzi's face betraying alarm before settling back to its usual bland civility.

'Of course, sir' she said, sliding away as Korbel approached again. It was obvious that he had gulped down a couple of glasses from the slight slur of his voice as he spoke.

'You guys are quite a force now you have that blond bastard with you' he said, tipping his glass toward where Illya was standing at the side of Hoang. 'All you need now is Solo… '. He stared closely at Napoleon, a slowly dawning look of recognition flooding his face.

'Jesus H Chr. . .' Napoleon already had his knife out and pressed gently into Korbel's ample gut before he could finish his sentence.

'If you want to live beyond lunchtime, I'd be very careful about what you say in the next minute' Napoleon hissed quietly. 'Now make an excuse and I'll meet you in the Boardroom.' He could see a tinge of anxiety on Illya's face as Korbel said something to the Japanese man and turned.

'Er, can you show me the way to the bathroom?' he said slowly to Napoleon, then followed him out.

They walked through the room towards the men's toilets, Napoleon walking just ahead until they had shut the door behind them.

'Don't bother to speak, Korbel, just listen' Napoleon said immediately. 'Your little outburst in there has just ensured you a quick trip to meet your fellow deviants in the next life.' Korbel gaped, holding onto the sink behind him for support as he digested Napoleon's information.

'How d'you know?' he said, Napoleon shaking his head at the man's naivety.

'Because your friend the blond bastard has just been told by Mr Hoang to ensure you lead the way to the party, and I get the strong feeling that you might be on your way to being whatever is in the lake's lunch.' Korbel's eyes bulged slightly, before he said,

'What, you mean that blond . . .'

'Yes, he's still Kuryakin, possessed of sound mind and a very mean Russian streak' Napoleon said, wanting to laugh at Korbel's expression.

'Oh Jeez.' Korbel staggered slightly, Napoleon suddenly feeling slightly sorry for the THRUSH man who had dared defy Hoang.

'Listen' Napoleon said, 'I must be out of my mind for saying this, but I'll inform them that you've returned to your room as you're not feeling well. If I were you, Korbel, I'd take the first pink bus out of here and don't even think about turning round.'

Korbel stood up, steadied himself and then put his hand on Napoleon's shoulder.

'I owe you one, Solo.'

'I'll remind you of it when next we meet' Napoleon said, ushering him out of the toilet.

xxxxxxx

The bridges, for they were a series of short spans held together by struts reaching down into the water below, rather than one long structure, curved out across the lake, an eerie calm descending on the group as they gathered on the platform just beyond the door leading to the room adjacent to the boardroom.

'Where's Korbel?' Illya murmured as Napoleon gazed down at the lake below. The water, mimicking nature, shelved away from a shallow edge in some areas, the struts of the bridge above sinking into the narrow strip of sand at the lake's edge, the whole thing covered with a plethora of creeping tropical plants and half-rotted tree stumps. He shuddered involuntarily at the scene, something about its superabundance and the heightened humidity of the place making imaginary insects begin to crawl under his shirt.

'What? Er, he's gone. I warned him off. I figured we didn't need any more hassle than we have already. I expect he'll get picked up by the boys in blue or our navy friends anyway.'

'Possibly. Only now I'll have to explain his disappearance to our new master.' Napoleon watched Illya push through the waiting THRUSH personnel, directing a dark look towards Zoltan before he reached Hoang and Therese at the head of the queue. He saw him go up to Hoang and speak, lowering his head in a submissive gesture as Hoang replied.

Illya consulted his watch. He had made and positioned the explosives to cause maximum destruction by fire to the laboratories, leaving the buildings above intact and ensuring that whatever happened was not apparent to the outside world. Fortunately, due to the meeting the laboratories had closed at midday, as he heard those working there discussing whilst he was pretending to remove the explosives. The loss of life in these missions had never given him concern before, but thinking of Petula, he had begun to wonder just how many who worked there were more or less innocent dupes of Hoang. He had already adjusted the time, planning on the explosion to coincide with the arrival of the Bermudian Police and the US forces either end of the walkway. It was essential now that by the time he pressed the tiny trigger on the side of the watch, Tess would be safe and Hoang would be dead.

Now that Korbel was missing, Illya found himself at the head of the line, with Hoang and Tess behind him, closely followed by the THRUSH group, Napoleon bringing up the rear. At the spa end, he could see that the lift doors were closed, the lights indicating that no-one was travelling either up or down the shaft. If Napoleon was able to subdue the THRUSH entourage, it was just a matter of separating Tess from Hoang.

As they moved onto the walkway, the nervous chatter from those behind him seemed to evaporate in the stifling humidity of the cavernous space they found themselves in, replaced by the odd sharp sound of metal against metal as the occasional heel clanged against the structure of the walkway. Illya's hair began to itch underneath the tight wig, as if unseen insects had burrowed underneath, and for the first time ever he momentarily regretted bowing to his vanity and wearing it. He glanced down, trying to calculate just how many steps away his wife was.

There was a sudden loud rapping sound on the low rail just behind him.

'Stop.' He turned, taking in the faces of the Central members, without exception now looking nervous and sweaty in the fetid atmosphere. The Japanese man Kenta, who Illya remembered was a formidable computer scientist, drew out a large handkerchief and mopped his head, before forcing himself to look rigidly ahead.

'Is there a problem, Mr Hoang?' he said, his words sounding like bullets in the echoing chamber.

'There could be, but I think we have a very interesting solution at hand' Hoang said, pulling Therese towards him. Within seconds he had spun her round to face Illya, a large surgical scalpel held at her belly. There was a slight gasp from the THRUSH personnel, Napoleon already with his gun out of its holster. Illya had turned towards Hoang and stood calmly, his fingers round his gun as the others fell silent and the sound of the lift doors were heard sighing open at the Spa end.

Napoleon didn't realise who it was at first; the uniform, the number five embroidered on the stiff upturned collar setting off a strong sense of unease in him as two guards strode purposefully down the walkway and put a gun to Illya's head.

'Drop the gun Mr Kuryakin, otherwise I'll have to ask Five here to kill you, which would be rather a shame seeing what lies ahead.' Illya slowly lowered his gun, watching Hoang dig into Tess' uniform with his blade as the gun, with a reverberating clang, dropped onto the metal walkway. Illya could see Tess' stricken face transfixed by what he presumed was his own discovery, until he looked across at Napoleon. He was also staring fixedly ahead, a shocked, sad expression barely concealed on the familiar features as he maintained his stance at the back of the THRUSH Central members.

'Tie them up' Hoang said coldly. Illya felt a hard shove in his back and staggered forward as a guard he recognised from that morning yanked his hands forward towards Therese's, the other guard entwining both sets of hands in some kind of plastic tie which bound them rigidly together, Tess' belly now pressed closely between them.

'Illya, look, oh look' she whispered fiercely, squeezing her eyes together in a vain effort not to cry. Illya turned his head slowly to the left, not being able to prevent a kind of terrible constriction in his throat as he took in the scene.

Anya stood rigidly to the side of them, a hard, emotionless expression draining her face of any humanity that had once existed in the strong, attractive features. For a moment, Illya held some wild, forlorn hope that she had somehow avoided the drug which had been destined for both him and Tess, but one look at Anya's eyes told him a different truth.

'_Боже мой, Anya'_ he murmured quietly, 'Oh my God.'

'As you can see, we have a new recruit to replace you, and this time the change is irreversible Mr Kuryakin' Hoang suddenly cut in. 'We found Madame Arshavina here lying in wait no doubt, but, as you can see, she proved not only a useful source of information to us but also at least a small recompense for the disappointment I feel at the loss of both of you, or should I say all three of you.' Illya struggled with the bonds a little, until he realised that they were tightening.

'Oh I wouldn't do that' Hoang continued maliciously. 'It's a new type of binding you see. The more you struggle, the tighter it gets. Still, it won't be long now' he added, glancing behind him and drawing out a small box from his jacket.

Napoleon watched carefully as the scene unfolded, Anya now stepping back from the ungainly pair in front of her and maintaining a rigid physical presence, as the other guard moved more towards the Spa end of the walkway. He had expected all eyes to be upon him too, and spent a few moments rapidly deliberating why he had not been betrayed, until he saw the Vasquez woman put her hand up in a scene curiously reminiscent of his days in Catholic High School.

'Excuse me, but if he's managed to fool you, how many other UNCLE agents are out there? she shouted out rather hysterically, the others turning and staring at her before returning their gaze to Hoang.

Hoang regarded her with a disdainful look as if someone had just interrupted him at dinner.

'Five here has been very helpful in outlining the extent of UNCLE involvement' he began, Napoleon glancing behind him as he spoke. Either Anya had revealed the whole of their plan and the back up support had been somehow disabled or destroyed even, or they were being extremely quiet. He only hoped the latter was true. 'Actually, it seems to have been disappointingly small' Hoang droned on. Mr Solo was here, but apparently after interfering with Mr Kuryakin's daughters' flight to Romania, he seems to have disappeared. Still, until we pick up Mr Solo, shall we proceed to the main course, as it were?'

'Main course?' Dr Egret murmured, a cynical look etched onto her features. Hoang returned the smile equally unpleasantly, before nodding to Anya, who retreated back towards the Spa a little, leaving Illya and Therese alone as Hoang moved towards the THRUSH group. As he reached them he pressed the little box he was holding.

With a slight crank of metal, the bridge on which the Kuryakins stood began to slowly descend. Immediately, Napoleon was aware of a slight movement beneath the part of the bridge nearest to the Spa, in shadow until the middle section had shifted downwards. He saw Illya and Therese, jerked by the bridge's movement fall over, Therese pulling the Russian down until he managed to position himself at her side. He could see that she was nearing the end of her endurance, her face pressed into his chest, her own chest heaving as she fought to control herself. Hoang looked over towards them, an expression of amusement playing his features, as if he had designed a game and was finally getting to play it.

Hoang pressed the box suddenly, the bridge grinding to a sudden halt as he turned towards the men and women beside him.

'No doubt you are wondering what lies in store for Mr and Mrs Kuryakin and their baby' he said, as if the two people below were about to embark on an exciting adventure. 'The creation of this underground environment has been an interesting experiment' he continued, 'and it has served as a reminder to those who work here of the consequences of disobedience.' As if to underline his words, there was a sudden, deep thrashing sound in the water below. Napoleon, looking down, could have sworn that he saw one of the larger tree trunks, which were covered in some sort of slimy matter, slowly moving into the water.

There was a ripple of what could only be described as fear across the group, before, with another glance below, Hoang continued,

'_Eunectes murinus' _hebegan, as if beginning an interesting lecture in some small town University department_. '_Interestingly, the female is rather dominant in the species, and will often eat a smaller male if hungry. Rather like Mrs Kuryakin here, she is very adaptable, but becomes rather aggressive in captivity. I'm afraid that Winnifred here has been in captivity quite a while and she's also very, very hungry.'

Napoleon looked down again, trying not to stare too much in the direction of what he had thought of was someone under the bridge. He could see Kuryakin whispering something to Therese, who was lying as before, but now breathing more steadily as he spoke to her. He glanced across the water, the zoological name unrecognisable until suddenly, with a grotesque smile, Dr Dabree turned to the others.

'Oh how charming, it's an Anaconda! I've heard they can grow to at least twenty five feet long!'

As if to confirm her words, there was a sudden movement in the water below Illya and Therese. Napoleon's stomach heaved as the enormous serpentine coils of the snake revealed themselves, its head thrashing slightly as it appeared to eye its possible meal above.

'Correct, Doctor' Hoang continued. 'We created this environment for Winifred to grow and thrive, and she has not disappointed us. It's rather ironic, isn't it Mr Kuryakin, that a snake so named should finally be your nemesis?'

Napoleon grimaced at the idea. Dr Winifred Engel had been responsible for the suffering and deaths of untold numbers both in East Germany and later under Hoang's direction. Kuryakin had only just survived being lobotomised by her; now it appeared nothing stood between him and Therese meeting a horrific death in the jaws of her namesake thrashing in the depths below them. He forced down his own dislike of water and what it held and stepped forward, squeezing past the backs of the THRUSH Central members, several of whom were now leaning over the parapet on which they stood to get a better view of what was going on below them.

He was now very near Hoang, who had turned away from him slightly, and was looking down at the pair beneath him from the edge of the gantry. He glanced down again, realising that if he tried to reach Illya and Tess, he would be dead by the time he got half way down, most likely from the hand of what had once been Anya Markova. He glanced at the THRUSH men and women, assuming but not knowing that they were unarmed. There seemed only one option for him; to carry out what he knew his partner would expect him to do.

Hoang straightened slightly, the little box still in his hand as Napoleon saw him smile grotesquely before reaching out with his finger to press the button again. There was a sudden gasp from the THRUSH men and women as a figure emerged from under the bridge and jumped lightly onto the parapet below where the two figures lay, bending down immediately and beginning to cut at their bonds. As Napoleon lunged towards Hoang, he fired directly at the guard next to Anya who had run to the edge of the bridge and was firing downwards.

There was a moment of mass hysteria from among the THRUSH Central members, as they suddenly stampeded back across the bridge towards the doors leading to the Boardroom, leaving Napoleon, Hoang and Anya facing each other. The two Kuryakins now seemed free of each other, although Napoleon could see a trail of blood on the metal walkway, as Illya heaved Therese to her feet.

The control box spun out of Hoang's hand as Anya ran to the edge and began to fire before jumping down onto the part of the bridge where Illya, Therese and the other mysterious figure stood. Napoleon's grip on his gun was loosed as he struggled with Hoang, falling behind him with a metallic clang. The control box lay just beyond them, at the edge of the parapet, a yawning gap beyond it made by the lowering of the next part. Napoleon felt Hoang slash him with the scalpel, the blade scraping against his holster and then penetrating the sleeve of his uniform. A hideous expression enveloped Hoang's face as Napoleon wrenched the scalpel away, his arm now beginning to bleed profusely from the cut. With another tremendous shove, Hoang broke loose and grabbed the box, wrapping his fingers round the controls as Napoleon forced himself to ignore the throbbing in his arm, and made a final lunge forward, his hand clutching at Hoang's. As the sound of a gun being fired reverberated in the cavern, Napoleon heard Hoang scream in triumph as the bridge with Illya and Therese began to descend further. As unconsciousness beckoned, Napoleon summoned reserves within himself, and, with one last, staggering movement, he threw himself at Hoang.

xxxxxxxx

Illya felt his wife's head heavy against his chest, her face hidden, only a series of deep sobs coming from her mouth. For a few moments he hardly knew what he should say. The certainty that Anya had been permanently altered filled his mind, together with the shocking reality of what lay ahead below them. It was almost certain too that no amount of wriggling would enable him to free them from their bonds. As Therese quietened, he felt a sudden lurch between them and the baby gave him a powerful kick.

'Tess, listen. Napoleon is on the bridge. He will think of something.' It seemed so pathetic to say the words, and to expect his partner to somehow find a way to rescue them against all the odds, but somehow the kick had re-awakened in him the belief that all was not lost, even if his head was already calculating the massive odds against it.

He was suddenly aware that they were now alone on their part of the bridge, the Mexican woman from THRUSH asking Hoang something before he replied, his answer suggesting that Anya had not revealed a great deal before they had transformed her into the robot who now stood at some distance away. Silence fell again, before with an ominous crank, he felt the bridge begin to move downwards. Therese gasped and as the walkway jarred slightly, she lost her balance, pulling Illya down with her until they were lying side by side.

'Illya' he heard her say, her voice growing stronger, 'when . . . I mean if . . . don't let me go.' She lifted up her head, rubbing his face with her lips, before, after a slight gasp, she said slowly, 'I do not regret anything except not being able to grow old with you and seeing our children grow and thrive.'

He looked back into her eyes, willing her to believe that there could be the possibility of survival.

'_Je t'adore, toujours' _he replied simply. As he heard the sudden deep splash of something just below them, without really intending to, he began to whisper words that only had ever been just words to him before that moment, words on a page he had gazed at in Gabriel's study, or heard on occasional Sundays at St Clare's.

_Whither shall I go from thy Spirit?_

_Or whither shall I flee from thy presence?_

_If I ascend to heaven thou art there,_

_If I make my bed in Sheol, thou art there._

_If I take the wings of the morning,_

_and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,_

_Even there thy hand shall lead me,_

_and thy right hand shall hold me._

The bridge suddenly came to a grinding halt. Therese, her eyes very close to him, murmured,

'But do you believe it?' Illya looked calmly back, the baby now a quiet presence between them.

'I believe it' he replied.

He squeezed her hands between his for a moment before he was alerted to a physical presence beside them, and the smell of a deeply familiar woman's perfume.

'Oh darlings, quick, let's get out of this horrible, horrible place!' Illya screwed his head round, his eyes wide.

'Mitzi?' How did you . . ?'

'Don't ask Illyusha' she replied, rapidly sawing at the bonds with a scalpel like knife. 'After all, I'm not an agent, as you said, just a make-up girl, but when I saw them take Anya, well, I couldn't leave you, darlings.' As the bonds sprang open, there was a sudden hail of bullets from the parapet above, followed by more gunfire and then silence. Illya felt something slice through his arm, followed by the inevitable hot stickiness of blood blossoming through his sleeve.

'Illya!' Therese cried, her hand instinctively going to his arm, the blood now oozing through her fingers.

'Here' Mitzi said, reaching into the backpack she had taken off her shoulders. 'I brought what I thought we might need.' She placed a large wad of a dressing on Illya's arm, following it with a swiftly applied bandage.

They pressed themselves against the steel girders at the end of the lowered part of the bridge, trying to get some cover as another round of bullets ricocheted round them from above.

'Mitzi, give me your . . .' Before he could complete the sentence, Anya had appeared in front of them, her gun drawn. Illya automatically stood in front of the women, Mitzi supporting Therese. He could feel his wife's breath on his neck as he looked ahead, her breathing ragged, interspersed with short gasps as she dealt with the pain of what he now knew was the certain onset of labour.

'You can only shoot one of us at a time, and by the time you've taken one of us down, my fellow agent here can take you down' Illya said slowly, watching her for any hint of uncertainty.

'I can take two of you easily and she is in no position to do anything' she replied harshly, bringing up her gun and pointing to Therese. 'The only question in my mind is who will die first. After all, I believe the snake prefers live prey, so that will leave Madame Kuryakina and her offspring as the perfect meal.'

'_Oh Anya'_ Illya heard Tess murmur, before he felt her move back slightly. There was a fractional moment of silence before they all heard a tremendous scuffling from above. From where they were standing Napoleon and Hoang came suddenly into view, the two of them seemingly wrestling for something before Hoang staggered to his feet with a horrible shout. Almost instantly the parapet they were standing on began to move downwards, Anya never taking her eyes off Illya as she released the safety catch on her weapon. Raising himself onto the balls of his feet imperceptibly, he prepared to throw himself at her. In the next instant, there was a stifled scream before, with a sickening thump of flesh, a body hurtled down behind Anya, hitting the edge of the bridge before landing on the edge of the shoreline just below. For a second she lost concentration and Illya flew forward, knocking the gun from her hand and wrestling her to the floor, before, without hesitation, he broke her neck. Another, more piercing scream made him look up.

Therese and Mitzi were both caught in expressions of abject horror at the scene in front of them. Illya was suddenly deluged with water, as the lake appeared to part and the anaconda emerged, dragging Hoang towards itself, before with a sickeningly smooth movement, it began to curl itself round his body and squeeze. Illya saw him for an instant appear to regain consciousness, before his legs disappeared into the coils of the gigantic reptile. After kneeling and closing Anya's eyes, he ran over to the women.

'Turn round' he ordered, holding Tess and forcing her away from the sight behind him. 'Listen. Napoleon is injured, and I have to get up there and help him. I'll bring the bridge up, so take Tess up there' he almost shouted, pointing to the Spa, 'and we'll join you.' He grabbed Tess and kissed her, squeezing Mitzi's hand. Without speaking, she handed him the backpack before he ran to the other end of the bridge and climbed up the girder.

Napoleon lay face down on the upper part of the bridge near the boardroom, a trail of blood obviously leading to the arm where he could see a nasty wide gash extending from his inner elbow up towards his shoulder. The lack of support meant that either the naval personnel had been somehow defeated, or that they had followed orders and had not entered the cavern. Illya slung the backpack down and grabbed a large dressing from inside, performing the same task as Mitzi had done only minutes before. He pressed his finger to Solo's neck, not liking the rapid but thready pulse that he felt, but glad that it was there all the same. Leaving him for a minute, he raced to the end of the bridge, and after staring at the controls for a moment, slammed his hand onto the green button.

'Napoleon, we have to go' he said to the unconscious man, dragging him up and on his shoulders, as he had done on countless other occasions, in countless other places. Ignoring his now throbbing arm, he staggered forward, aware that in front of him Mitzi and Tess now were moving towards the lift at the Spa end of the bridge.

They reached the lift almost simultaneously, the doors still open from when Anya and the other guard had emerged what felt like hours before. Illya ushered the two women in and then gently laid Napoleon down on the floor.

'He's lost a lot of blood. Get them both upstairs and I'll join you there' he said tersely, before he stepped out, ignoring Therese's anguished face, and pressed the button on the outside of the lift. The doors closed on the cry of his name. Illya squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, before turning round and running back towards the part of the bridge where the junction with the laboratories lay.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

The noise that assailed them was shocking for an instant, until, with a voice like thunder, Mitzi summoned help from the nearest policeman standing by the lift. The reception area on the third floor was a seething mass of medical staff, all heading in one direction towards the stairs. One of the policemen leapt into the lift and began to lift Napoleon, the other disappearing and immediately returning with a trolley pushed by two rather miserable looking nurses.

'What is going on? Mitzi asked, as they lay Napoleon on the trolley, Therese momentarily forgotten in the crush to separate the crowd as they pushed their way through.

'We're rounding them all up and sending them downstairs' the taller of the two policemen replied. 'We thought it'd be easier that way, ma'am.'

'_Nein_! We need two doctors for him and a doctor for her!' Mitzi virtually screamed, staring at the two nurses, and then grabbing Therese and plonking her in a convenient wheelchair which a blonde nurse who looked familiar to her arrived with. Therese gasped with pain and looked up.

'Yvonne?' she managed to say, before clutching her belly and letting out a deep guttural sound. Yvonne knelt down by her side, her soft brown eyes regarding the woman she had cared for and then conspired to destroy at the behest of Clark Hoang.

'Therese? You're . . . .' Tess stared up at her, squeezing her eyes together momentarily to focus.

'Yes, I'm still me, and I need you, Yvonne because I . . . .' she gave another deep grunt, Yvonne's eyes widening as she recognised what was happening.

'Oh God, no, Tess, don't push!' She stood up and ran towards the door to the stairs, dragging the last two people leaving back to where they were gathered in the reception area.

'Listen, you can't leave. You have to help us!' she screamed, as one of the doctors turned to look at the two figures on the gurney and in the wheelchair.

Therese stared at him and then groaned. Dr Erik Funk stood gazing at them with barely concealed horror on his face. After it became obvious from the appearance of the Bermudian police that it was all over, he had hidden in a janitor's closet for a while, hoping that after the initial panic was over, he could slip away, perhaps even use the lift to escape when they were all otherwise engaged. He had emerged to find that most of the police had returned to the ground floor, assuming that eventually everyone had to descend, leaving only two officers guarding the lift, and two others assigned to supervising the medical staff down the stairs. He had ripped off his name badge and, wearing scrubs, carefully made his way to the exit, mingling with the gaggle of nursing staff and porters all trying to force their way down. He was about to slip through the exit door when someone took hold of his shoulder.

'I'm a plastic surgeon for God's sake. I can't help' he lied pathetically, aware of who was lying on the trolley, his arm leaking blood despite being heavily bandaged.

'Look, help Mr Solo first and I'll help Tess, then when you've finished, come to us' Yvonne said, 'and make sure you don't harm him' she added, glancing at the officer and the other two nurses. Funk sighed, and then after speaking to the anaesthetist first, pointed towards the Theatres immediately down the corridor behind them. Yvonne signalled to Mitzi and then spun the wheelchair round, heading down the same corridor behind the trolley.

'_Achtung, Herr Doktor Funk_!' Mitzi shouted as they parted company into separate theatres. 'Do a good job with Mr Solo otherwise when Mr Kuryakin arrives, he will be heading in your direction.'

xxxxxxx

The cavern was now eerily quiet, apart from the faint slurping sound of the water beneath him. Illya stared downwards, his eye naturally drawn towards what anyone who didn't know could have mistaken for a large felled tree trunk moving gently by the side of the water; except for the fact that two legs were poking out of the end and that further up, there was a faint rhythmic action to the snake's digestion of Clark Hoang. Further along the bridge he could see Anya's body sprawled, her head twisted unnaturally as he had left her. He pursed his lips, images of her flooding into his mind; her joy, her intelligence, the hopeless love that he knew she felt for him and which now had resulted in this savage, wasteful end to her life. He turned away, kicking the bridge with his foot, and then with a cry, tearing the wig from his head he hurled it furiously out into the depths beyond him.

He ran lightly towards the laboratories, and then stopped. He had not told the others, but he was certain the charge would not be set off without being at least in reasonably close proximity to the three explosives he had set as Illya Kuryakin and then checked as his alter ego, Three. Glancing back, he mentally calculated how many seconds he would need to be certain of safety. He had to be sure of detonation, and that meant getting closer if his first attempt didn't work. Pulling back his sleeve, he flicked open the face of the watch and exposed the tiny triggering device.

'Farewell, Anya. May flights of Angels take thee to thy rest' he murmured, taking his last look across the bridge, as, with a firm touch, he pressed down hard on the tiny black button.

xxxxxxxxx

'Go and get Funk and Dr Jones' Yvonne said, putting back the obstetric stethoscope on the trolley by her side and then replacing her hand on Therese's belly. Mitzi continued wiping Therese's forehead with a damp cloth, before putting it down and hurriedly leaving the room.

Therese continued to breathe steadily and calmly, her hair now re-arranged by Mitzi more loosely on the top of her head as she gazed fixedly ahead. As the contraction faded, she glanced round the room, willing the face she loved most to appear at the square glass aperture in the doors. They had survived the hideous scene on the bridge, only for him to leave them again, refusing to even look at her as the lift doors closed. Now, for all she knew, he was lying in that vile place terribly wounded, his partner fighting for his own life and unable to help him.

Mitzi suddenly appeared at her side again, her face a mixture of elation and agitation.

'Napoleon, he is OK' she whispered. God be praised, those two nurses were very efficient, and although he is a monster, that Funk did a good job. So, now he is coming.'

'I hope so' Yvonne murmured. 'The baby is crowning, too late for a section.' At that moment they all felt the building shake imperceptibly as a distant sound like thunder erupted beneath them.

'_Gott in himmel_!' Mitzi screamed, as the theatre doors opened and then banged shut behind them. She ran to the doors, shoving them open again, and then dashed into the next theatre, where one of the nurses was putting up another unit of blood on Napoleon's IV stand as Dr Jones removed the mask on Napoleon's face.

'Where's Funk?' Mitzi cried looking round. The taller of the two nurses, a woman called Ida, shrugged.

'He said he was coming into you.' Mitzi swore silently under her breath and ran from the room, followed swiftly by the police officer. She ran to the lifts, pummelling the button until the officer gently removed her hand.

'It's not working' he said laconically. 'Must be the explosion, Miss.' Mitzi raised her eyebrows at him and ran to the stairs, only to collide with two figures coming towards her. Erik Funk stared furiously at her before he was shoved forward by the figure behind, barely recognisable to Mitzi if it hadn't been for his hair, the colour in stark contrast to the black face beneath it. Illya grinned, his teeth accentuating the grime and dust he was covered in from head to toe.

'We met on the stairs' he said; 'he seemed in a hurry to leave for some reason.'

'Hurry darling, we need that monster to help Tess' she cried. Illya shoved Funk forward again, following Mitzi's lead until they all stumbled headlong into the theatre.

Tess looked up, not caring that her husband looked like some kind of strange chimney sweep, the remains of his uniform hanging in shreds across his chest and back and his arm hanging rather limply by his side. He reached her side, bending over and kissing her, before with a slight start, noticing that Yvonne Shumway stood facing him.

'Oh hello again. I presume you're going to help my wife this time instead of . . .'

'Stop it Illya' Tess panted. 'She's doing her best and there's no one else.' Illya stared at Yvonne, noticing the controlled panic flooding her face.

'I thought they were sending someone' he murmured to Mitzi.

'So did I, darling. I think there is a big fuss going on downstairs but it's too late now anyway. _He_ will have to help' she said, indicating Funk with her head.

Illya squeezed Tess' hand and then glanced open eyed between her legs. He could see the top of the baby's head clearly, a thick mass of dark hair showing.

'It's too late for anything surgical' Funk said suddenly, his proximity making Illya shudder slightly. Illya came round to his side of the bed and then dragged him away slightly.

'Having a baby this way could be very dangerous for her' she said quietly, his eyes boring into Funk in a way that held the other man's attention. Funk said nothing for a moment, before a slight smile played on his lips.

'So, Illya dear, what is it worth?' he said.

Mitzi could see the two men talking, Illya's body language suddenly signalling to her that something very distasteful had been said. After a few moments he turned back, his face unreadable. He brushed past her and came back besides Tess, gently sweeping away a loose curl from her face.

'_N'est pas inquiete, cherie, Erik va t'aider' _he whispered close to her head.

'I'm not worried now that you're here _corazon_' she sighed, before with a massive grunt she sat forward and strained, a huge deep roar coming from within her.

'Here, Illyusha, quick!' Mitzi called, signalling from the end of the bed. Yvonne skilfully turned the dark head and eased the shoulders through, the baby sliding out with a tiny cry from her delicate miniature lips. Funk stepped forward, holding out his hand towards Yvonne as she prepared to cut the cord.

'No, wait. Let her hold the baby first. No rush' he said, an expression on his face that Illya was not familiar with.

The baby gave a tiny gulp and then to Illya's astonishment, attempted to fix onto Therese's breast. He put his arm round her shoulders as Yvonne gently clamped and removed the cord, marvelling in the little girl's immediate and instinctive quest for life.

'Take her now, Illya, we need to help mama' Funk warned suddenly, as Yvonne wrapped a soft towel round the baby before gently giving her to him. Funk signalled something to Yvonne, who immediately guided Illya over to a plastic sided cot at the back of the room.

'We need to check her score and clean her up' she explained, hoping that Illya would be suitably distracted. He gazed in wonder at his youngest daughter, tinier than Anastasiya had been, but nonetheless perfect in his eyes.

'Napoleon, is he alright?' he said suddenly, feeling ashamed that his partner had been forgotten in his joy. Yvonne smiled and patted his hand.

'He's fine; you can see him if you want. Why don't you . . .'

There was a sudden noise as they both turned round.

'Nurse Shumway, we need you' Funk said rapidly, as Illya saw Therese now flat on the bed, her legs pinioned either side and blood beginning to pour out from between them.

'Get the others in here, stat' Funk called calmly, as Yvonne drew up instruments by the side of the bed. For the second time in as many minutes Illya thought he saw a look of genuine care flit across the plastic surgeon's face.

'What is happening?' he said, gazing horrifyingly at the scene in front of him, before checking the tiny baby behind.

'As you said, this type of birth wasn't really supposed to happen' Funk said, feeling around inside Therese. 'She delivered the afterbirth, but she's bleeding internally, and if we can't stop it soon, I'll have to perform a hysterectomy. Now considering the situation and the size of your family, I imagine that's not going to be too much of a issue, right?'

Illya stood frozen to the spot. He had faced so many life and death situations in his years at UNCLE, so many split second decisions where Napoleon's life was in the balance and it was down to him to choose what course to take. And in all those times he had never hesitated, he had known what to do. Now, in this moment where his wife's life lay in the balance, where a decision had to be made, he stood there, unable to even speak, never mind decide on what life changing surgery should be performed.

'I . . .' he stuttered, the baby's cry cutting through his thoughts as he looked wildly between his wife and his daughter.

'Make your mind up, Kuryakin; and remember we have a deal' Funk said, peeling off his gloves and gown and going towards the sinks to scrub up. 'Just get out of here while I work.'

Illya scooped up the baby and held her on his good side, folding over the delicate blanket round her tiny form.

'Do what you have to do, to save her life' he said, before going back to Therese. Mitzi appeared, the other medical staff behind her, all rushing forward to assist. As the anaethetist inserted a needle into Therese's arm, Illya leaned over, kissing his wife's head.

'See you soon, _cherie_' he murmured. 'We're just going visiting.' With a final, penetrating stare at Funk, he walked round towards Mitzi. 'Come and find me if there is any problem at all' he said, before, with a final, long wistful look at Tess, he left the room.

Napoleon's mind replayed the events on the bridge in a seemingly endless fashion, Hoang's hideous cry of victory, his slicing at Napoleon's arm, and then at the end, or was it at the beginning, the last attempt to prevent his partner and Therese meeting a hideous death below him. He had no memory of what had happened later, of whether Illya was still alive or even where he now lay, except that he could hear his partner's voice cutting through the continuous loop of the nightmare on the bridge.

'At last. Come on, try harder Napoleon; you've done nothing much to deserve such an easy time.'

Napoleon heard a scraping noise of something drawing close, before an unfamiliar sound confused him. At first his scrambled brain said 'kitten' before, with a sigh he opened his eyes and understood.

'Finally. Let me introduce you. Napoleon, say hello to Sabina Grace Illyevna. Sabi, this is your uncle. Remember not to listen to any advice he gives you on the subject of boyfriends, homework or your future career choices.' The baby sucked her lips before gently sighing, her eyelashes thick and dark on her delicate skin. Napoleon turned his head as Illya laid the baby by his side.

'Sabi, eh' he croaked drily; 'that's great, Illya.' He lay back, smiling, the endlessly repeating nightmare finally extinguished and replaced by happier images. After a moment, he turned again, watching Illya nursing the baby.

'Hoang . . .'

'is dead, thanks to you, my friend. Well, thanks to you and Winnifred. It appears that she preferred Japanese cuisine to plainer Russian fare' he added, smirking a little.

and Anya . . .'

Illya became silent, only the murmuring of the baby and the occasional noise from one of the nurses in the room interrupting the sudden quiet.

'She died here' Illya said, looking round. 'Now she is at rest.' Napoleon nodded, knowing that no details were necessary or would be given. 'The explosion went well' Illya said eventually, 'except that my timing was 1.8 seconds out.'

'I can see' Napoleon replied, staring at his partner.

The door to the room opened and Mitzi slipped in, standing behind Illya with her hand on his shoulder.

'All is well, darling. Dr Funk has saved her but he is insisting that you get cleaned up before you see her, and he needs to look at your arm.' Illya, whose sole attention had been on the baby for the last few minutes, was suddenly reminded of the gradually increasing pain on his right side. He looked up, his expression alerting Mitzi, who instantly took Sabi and handed her over to the nurse, in time for her to prevent the Russian from collapsing onto the floor.

'Darling, come with me now. Nurse Mitzi will see to your every need' she said, winking at Napoleon behind Illya's now dipping head.

'And make sure he gets a thorough scrubbing, especially behind the ears' Napoleon added, hearing the usual growl from his partner as he was half carried from the room by Mitzi.

Napoleon once again sank back gratefully onto the pillows. No doubt there would be a considerable mopping up process to be attended to, but for now, the world seemed just a little bit better somehow. He glanced across at the bedside table beside him, surprised to see an UNCLE communicator nestling amongst some other personal things. At that moment a very loud and familiar sound burst from it, the first he had heard for some days. Groaning, he reached gingerly across with his good arm and retrieved the silver cylinder, managing to pull up the cap with his teeth.

'Ah Mr Solo, good to hear from you again. Perhaps you could fill me in with exactly what you and Mr Kuryakin have been up to for the last few days, if you feel you can manage it.' Solo sighed, lying back with the communicator.

'Yes sir; it's been fairly eventful.'


	10. Epilogue

CHAPTER FORTY TWO

The trees on the road were heavy with hints of autumn, their summer freshness already giving way to the lustrous colours heralding the fall as Napoleon naturally thought of it. He shifted in his seat slightly, trying to alter the position of his arm to make it more comfortable against the side of the car while he drove. After a noisy beginning, all the other occupants of the vehicle had gradually succumbed to a sleepy silence; even Illya's eyes were now firmly closed, his head nodding against the strapping that held his arm firmly against his chest. Napoleon glanced in the mirror, surveying the all-female group behind him with a smile. In the middle Therese dozed a little, the baby pressed to her in a soft sling, her blouse open, revealing a little of the breast that the baby, with soft sucking noises, was firmly attached to, the two girls equally cemented to her on either side. He sighed before giving Kuryakin a sharp dig with his elbow, receiving a grunt and the usual inscrutable expression as his partner woke up.

'Yes?'

'Just checking, in case your snoring disturbs the girls.'

'Hardly likely, since I wasn't asleep in the first place.' Illya shifted himself a little to turn, a soft smile coming to his face as he took in the scene on the back seat.

'Are you sure you can drive with that injury?' he said, turning back and staring at Napoleon.

'Well I'm managing so far, aren't I, and besides, I'm the best of the bunch as far as I can see.'

Illya smiled and stared into the distance, the road relatively free of traffic on such a beautiful day. He calculated how long it would be until they arrived, how long it had been since they had last seen their boys. His mind raced back to the day of the car chase through Manhattan, the scene at UNCLE, and then all that had followed in Bermuda.

His injury had been a little more serious than he had thought, not that he had thought much about it at the time. Funk had done a good job suturing the wound, but the arm had had to wait until their return to UNCLE before an X-ray had confirmed the hairline crack caused not by the bullet, but by the flying debris following Illya as he raced for the safety of the stairs to the Spa. He had spent several days confined to a room shared with Napoleon on the third floor, Mitzi keeping guard and bringing regular reports of Therese's progress until he had been able to stagger to her room unaided.

By the time he saw her again, she had regained the colour in her face he saw drain away on the day of Sabi's birth, although for a while she seemed withdrawn into a world he was not given entry to. On Napoleon's advice, he waited patiently, rewarded by a smile eventually, as she regained strength and was able to take on the feeding of the baby, little Sabi's sheer lust for life bringing Therese out of what Illya feared might become a prolonged period of depressive introspection.

'She's as greedy as you are' she said, as he sat down gratefully on the chair next to her bed, the baby, tiny as she was, blowing diminutive raspberries as she settled in determinedly on Therese's breast.

'Mm. I suppose I'll have to take a back seat for the next few months' he complained, a mischievous smile illuminating his face. Reaching over, she grasped his hand, her eyes locking with his.

'Don't worry' she said, looking back at the baby. 'I know she's gone now. I just feel so sad that so many good people have been lost too along the way.' Illya squeezed her hand, unspoken memories and thoughts flowing between them as they looked at their daughter.

Napoleon had spent what felt like hours to Illya on the phone each day to Jo, Illya lying back on his pillow with his eyes closed feigning sleep as they talked. He had heard him describing Sabi in minute detail, her uncle obviously almost as obsessed by the baby as her own father was, Illya's heart sank at the conclusion he drew from his partner's feelings for the little girl. They had lain side by side in companionable silence for a while until Napoleon had said suddenly,

'I think she's hiding something from me.' Illya heaved himself up the bed a little and looked over to his partner, now more human looking after all the tubes had been removed.

'Oh, good or bad, do you think?' Napoleon continued to stare ahead for a while.

'Good. I'm sure of it.' He looked back at Kuryakin, lying with only a sheet covering him, the astonishing smoothness of his skin only marred by the damage inflicted by the bullet and subsequent explosion in the cavern.

'By the way, you didn't manage to get the recipe from Funk for all the silky smooth skin you're displaying, did you comrade?' he asked. Illya's expression never altered, his eyes closed against the bright light outside and his chin tilted upwards in silent contemplation of nothing.

'He said he'd send it to me, but I'm not holding my breath' he murmured, a faint smile altering his lips as he continued to lie immobile on the bed.

Something about that smile awakened another memory of the last few days in Napoleon. He turned onto his side, pulling the pillows behind him to support his arm.

'I noticed you smirk during that Central meeting' he began, Illya's eyes opening at his comment. 'Care to explain what that was all about?' Illya shifted a little uncomfortably and then turned to face him.

'It was so ironic that I couldn't help myself' he said. 'I hoped no-one else noticed, but of course I should have known you wouldn't be concentrating on the important issues.' Napoleon ignored the jibe and waited, watching Kuryakin's face flush imperceptibly. 'If you remember, they were discussing the plan for the release of the virus' he started.

'Not something one would normally smile about' Napoleon added.

'Exactly. However, cast your mind back to the meeting we had in New York with Dr Francis, when she got all excited about . . .'

'Your results.' Napoleon remembered it now. Illya had stopped Dr Francis in her tracks and with all that was going on, he had forgotten entirely about his results, assuming that they were the same as all the other victims of Hoang's mutant strain.

'Let me guess' Napoleon continued, a wry smile coming to his face. 'This sounds like a cellular version of 'you can't put a good man down.'

'Or in my case, you can't put a good sperm down' Illya replied, 'which is actually rather unfortunate bearing in mind what I will have to do when I return home.'

'But not before all those good folks in one of our labs crawl all over you for a sample or two' Napoleon said, now not being able to contain a broad smile at his partner's expense.

'Yes, thank you for reminding me. So as you can see now, I knew at the meeting that their plans would come to nothing, as long as our scientists were able to make a vaccine, which according to Dr Francis they will be able to, not that that will help the poor men who have already been affected' Illya added, growing serious.

'Mm. So Sabi will be the last of this generation of Kuryakins' Napoleon said, regarding his partner, who in his present state looked more like a teenager than the father of so many children.

'Yes Napoleon. We are handing the reins of procreation over to you now.' Illya glanced over, and swore he saw the tiniest gleam in Napoleon's deep brown eyes.

'Perhaps' he said.

xxxxxxxxxx

By the time Napoleon and he were on their feet the consequences of Clark Hoang's plot were well in the process of being worked through by an UNCLE team working with the Bermudian police force. Illya stood behind one of the desks assigned to UNCLE, a Section Three colleague handing him a copy of a list of possible suspects he was working through.

'Mr Solo is at the other desk, so none of them should be able to weasel past, eh?' the Section Three man said, as Illya gratefully pulled out the glasses which had been sent with the UNCLE team, and perused the list.

'I hope not' he replied.

It had been quite a coup, the THRUSH Central members running straight into the arms of the US naval forces waiting for them in the boardroom. Apart from a few obvious names, the others were unknown to him. He frowned at the last few, only numbers were listed, the guards unable to give anything but the numeral assigned to them. Illya wondered where their future lay, now that their leader, or what remained of him, lay entombed beneath them. He moved over to the temporary screen that divided the desks and glanced round. Napoleon was also checking a similar list, another Section Three agent sitting patiently waiting in front of him.

'Is Funk on your list?' he asked, as Solo looked up. Napoleon looked down again, shaking his head.

'If he appears, tell me' Illya said, disappearing behind the screen. Napoleon frowned, but the appearance of the first interviewees prevented him pursuing whatever Kuryakin might be up to next door.

Illya sat down, and waited. He had nothing to contribute to the first few interviews, except to indicate clearly to his colleague the true identity of the two nurses who had manhandled him on the night of his capture. He could hear another nurse complaining bitterly next door, obviously extremely disappointed with his partner in some way. The Section Three agent handled the guards very professionally; obviously a strategy had been agreed and, after a brief explanation, they were removed to a secure facility Illya had vaguely heard of on a remote Caribbean island he hoped he would never visit. He sighed at the memory of wearing the same uniform, choosing to cover over the hated tattoo until something could be done about it in New York.

After a short break, Napoleon came through and drew up a chair next to Illya.

'There are only two left, Frank; we can deal with them' he said, indicating that the Section Three agent could leave. Illya consulted his list, wondering how his partner seemed to know what he didn't.

'I'll deal with the first one; you can add anything relevant, OK?' Solo said as Edvard Zoltan shuffled in.

He looked a pale shadow of his former arrogant self, his clothes battered and creased from the experience in the cavern and its aftermath.

'Name' Napoleon said flatly, 'for the record of course' he added, turning on the small tape recorder on the desk.

'Dr Edvard Zoltan' he replied, something within him giving him the strength to look Napoleon in the face with unconcealed hatred.

'That's not his name' Illya interrupted suddenly. 'Perhaps you might like to start again, this time with the truth.' Zoltan stared malevolently at him, before calmly addressing Napoleon again.

'I don't know what he means' he began. 'My name is Edvard Zoltan, chief of . . .' Illya stared back, a look on his face which even Napoleon found uncomfortable.

'His name is Sorin Brezeanu; I believe his rank was Lieutenant Colonel' Illya began coldly. 'On 16 October 1941 he was part of the forces capturing the city of Odessa in Ukraine after a two month siege. Unfortunately for the citizens of Odessa, a delayed Soviet bomb exploded on 22 October killing sixty seven Nazi and Romanian soldiers. In reprisal for that, Lieutenant Colonel Brezeanu here and his fellow officers rounded up nineteen thousand people and after soaking them with gasoline, set them on fire.'

Zoltan jumped to his feet, his face flushed.

'How do you know that? Were you there?' he shouted, suddenly silenced by the expression on Kuryakin's face.

'As a matter of fact I was' Illya replied calmly, feeling Napoleon's hand on his shoulder. 'Some of those that you murdered were children I went to school with. They were my friends' he added quietly, turning slightly to Napoleon. 'When this butcher and his so called colleagues had finished in Odessa they moved into the countryside where my uncle's farm was. They rounded up the Jews and Roma and put them in buildings with specially made machine gun holes.' Napoleon could feel his partner begin to tremble slightly under his touch.

'That's enough' Napoleon said, raising his voice and summoning two Section Three agents from outside.

'You need to sign a deposition' he said, looking at Illya, as the two agents came in. 'Take him to a secure holding cell and make sure he is not left alone at any time, you understand?' Zoltan lunged forward towards Illya, and spat at him, bellowing a string of words that Napoleon had no wish for his partner to translate.

Without speaking, Napoleon handed Illya his handkerchief. Kuryakin slowly wiped his face, his whole frame rigid for a few moments until eventually he regained more control and sat down.

'I recognised him at the meeting' he said quietly, breathing out in a long, sad sigh. 'Those memories, I had hoped they were . . .'. He sighed again, pushing the hair from his face and covering it with his hands for a moment.

'Perhaps in order for them to be laid to rest, this had to happen' Napoleon said. Illya looked up.

'Yes, perhaps.'

There was a stir behind the screen and then a familiar face stood in front of them. Illya looked up and then stood, Erik Funk's usual fake smile now firmly attached as the two men eyed each other across the desk.

'Napoleon, I can deal with this alone. Perhaps you could make sure Dr Zoltan has been dealt with' Illya said, maintaining his gaze in Funk's direction. Napoleon looked at the two men, and then moved towards the screen.

'I'll be back, Illya' he said, giving Funk a last look before leaving.

When he returned, Illya was sitting at the desk alone.

'Before you ask, he's gone' Illya said immediately. 'I respected your judgement over Korbel and now I want you to respect mine over Funk.'

'Perhaps if you'd explain what happened it'd be easier to understand' Napoleon said, drawing up a chair. Illya leaned back slightly, the strain of the last half hour showing on his face.

'We came to, well, an agreement' he began, looking down. 'I traded his life for those of my wife and daughter' he said blankly. 'If you want to report me to Waverly, I'll understand.' They sat in silence for a few moments before Napoleon got up.

'I understand they've got a new à la Carte menu at the main building' he said. Illya looked up, his eyes brimming with too many memories, both recent and distant, or so it seemed to Napoleon as he looked down at him. For a moment Solo saw the child in the man, glimpsed his pain, before, with a long sigh Kuryakin stood up, a faint smile attempted.

'Thank you Napoleon; I'd like that' he said.

Illya had spoken to both his other daughters on the phone once he was well enough, but despite their pleas, he had insisted they wait until their father and mother and baby sister were well enough to join them. He had paused too long when Pascale had asked after Anya, his usual skills at deception deserting him when speaking to his eldest daughter. She had been silent for a few moments, before saying,

'Papa, when we were at home, I thought some very bad things about Anya. Do you think she forgave me?' Illya pursed his lips, his arm suddenly throbbing in some kind of sympathy for the ache in his daughter's heart.

'Anya loved you very much Pascale' he said. 'You were very special to her, very special, and I know she wouldn't have wanted you to feel sad.'

'Oh but I do feel sad, Papa, because I won't see her anymore.'

'Well, when we return home, perhaps we can do something to remember her; perhaps you and Tasiya can think of something you'd like to do' he suggested, the knowledge of Anya's death suddenly causing him to reflect on the other two women in his life who had loved him and now were also lost to him because of the actions of another, altogether more evil member of the same sex.

Illya twisted back, writhing a little in his seat, before glancing at Napoleon and then surreptitiously sliding his good hand inside his trousers.

'What the . . .' Illya good humouredly removed his hand and re-buckled his belt before settling into the seat.

'If you had had done to you what I had done to me, and then several weeks had passed, you would be doing what I was just doing' he said elliptically.

'Oh, right' Napoleon said, suddenly looking in the mirror and smiling. He nodded to Illya and jerked his head back slightly. 'Take a look behind. Is that who I think it is?' Illya with a slight groan twisted back again, as Therese looked up.

'Who is it?' she said, gently lifting the baby onto her shoulder and faintly rubbing her back. Illya frowned, before a crooked grin lit up his face.

'Get ready for a scene from 'Gone with the Wind' he said laconically, turning back and giving Napoleon a sideways glance.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

They had travelled back in an UNCLE jet to New York, both Petula and Brent accompanying them on the relatively short journey home. Illya had spent the entire time from take-off with the baby in his arms reading a book, until Therese had suddenly appeared guitar in hand. The seats were rather advantageously arranged in a group, Napoleon instantly taking the hint and the baby from his now scowling partner.

'Where did you find that?' Illya growled, as Tess sat down opposite him.

'Oh, Steve collected up a load of my things from the house and this was one of them' she said lightly, winking at Petula, who still seemed to be recovering from the shock of finding out who Tess really was. She played a few chords, and then leaning towards the now slightly less miserable Illya, whispered something into his ear. He sighed, before putting down his book.

'Please don't, you really don't have to do it' Petula said, her face saying something entirely different.

'Oh but he does' Napoleon said; 'he is, after all, a man of his word.'

'You mean a man of your word' Illya mumbled, before sitting forward slightly as Therese, faintly at first, but then more powerfully, began to play the first chords of a tune Napoleon had last heard her singing what seemed like centuries before in the house at Grove Street. Illya's face became more pensive; he turned his body to face Petula, and then began to sing.

_Black, black, black is the colour of my true love's hair,_

_Her lips are something wondrous fair,_

_The brightest eyes and the bravest hands,_

_I love the ground whereon she stands._

_I love my love and well she knows,_

_I love the ground whereon she goes,_

_And if my love no more I'll see,_

_My life would quickly fade away._

_Black, black, black is the colour of my true love's hair._

Petula, whose expression had become completely enraptured by the song and the singer, did not notice it, but it was the woman next to her that Illya's sole attention was directed towards, her delicate and expressive accompaniment of the Joan Baez song adding to the power and strength of his voice. He smiled a sweet smile as he finished and she rushed across to thank him.

'No Petula, I think we all owe you a great deal' Illya said. 'A great deal.'

Waverly was characteristically gazing at papers in his office when they arrived, as if they had only just popped out minutes before.

'Ah gentlemen, I trust your return was greeted with a suitable show of shock and amazement from your colleagues' he began, not looking up, disarming them with a rare attempt at humour.

They had indeed been greeted with reactions varying from mild shock to near collapse, the girl on the reception desk screaming uncontrollably when she saw Kuryakin and having to be taken off somewhere to recover. Napoleon could see that the Russian was beginning to enjoy it, breaking into an almost broad grin as Darryl Moore appeared at the door of their office. He looked flushed already, a look of delight and horror somehow combined on the broad features of his face as he stared at the two agents sitting companionably having coffee together.

'Ah Darryl' Illya said, standing up, 'do come in. Coffee?' Darryl stumbled into the room, accepting the cup gingerly before sitting down next to Napoleon.

'I . . . um, well, gee I'm . .' Napoleon began to grin before putting down his cup and patting Darryl's knee.

'Next time, try not to be so, well, accurate Darryl' he said.

By the time he had explained what had happened to the junior agent, Illya had disappeared, a cryptic message indicating he was with Waverly left on his desk. Another hour had elapsed before he returned; his usual avoidance strategies in full force.

'We should be going' he said. 'I'm going upstairs to collect Tess and the girls from the clutches of Mr Shearer, so I'll collect you from your house at five.' He walked off without further comment, Solo going to Waverly's office for his own interview before finally making his way home to await the Kuryakin tribe later.

xxxxxxxx

The final part of the journey led them down a narrow road, more like a track really. On one side a thickly wooded area stretched away while on the other side the road ran very close to the lake, a breath taking view afforded them across the water towards the mountains beyond.

'Ah' Napoleon sighed expansively, 'Blue Mountain Lake. Let's hope the cabin lives up to expectation.'

'Stop; pull over' Illya suddenly exclaimed, leaning forward. Napoleon hit the brakes fairly gently to avoid consternation in the back before Illya heaved open the door and with difficulty got out and stood at the edge of the shelving ground leading to the beach below them. The car behind pulled round and continued on the road, as, to Napoleon's surprise, he heard Illya shout something and uncharacteristically wave enthusiastically with his good arm. Nothing happened for a moment until he saw two figures in a boat out on the lake begin to wave back, one standing up and causing a scarily violent rocking movement in the little craft until he was pulled back down into it again.

All of a sudden there was another shout from the beach before two more diminutive figures, both entirely nude except for their rather jaunty hats, could be seen hurtling towards the Russian full tilt.

'Oh look girls, the boys are here!' Tess shouted, as she wound down the window and the girls started shouting through it, Tasiya standing up and having to be restrained by her mother. Illya knelt down as the boys approached, thus able to take the joint force as they both hurled themselves into his free arm.

'Those boys has got no clothes on!' Tasiya cried out, assuming her usual role, as Pascale climbed out of the other side of the car and rushed to her father's aid, scooping up Misha as Illya carried the squirming Valya back up to the car.

Therese managed to get the car door open as they arrived, Tasiya dancing around her father as the boys now clamoured towards their mother. Napoleon got out and relieved Illya of Valya as his partner grabbed hold of Tasiya, all of the family now gathered round to look at the smallest Kuryakin.

'Now, let me look at my new grandchild please.' Illya turned as his mother approached and kissed him, taking in his injury with a frown before turning her attention towards Tess. The baby, as if aware of someone new but important in her life cooed sweetly before gazing gently at her grandmother. Marina took her into her arms, a smile so like Illya's sweeping across her face. 'Well, I think this one is like her mama' she murmured, stroking the baby's face gently with her finger. Illya came up beside her, his arm gently encircling his mother's waist.

'Her name is Sabina Grace Illyevna' he said. 'Sabi, meet your babushka.'

They all walked the few hundred yards to the cabin, Illya noticing that the rowing boat was now moving rapidly towards the dock just beyond it.

'Peter is showing Marvin how to fish' Marina said, smiling, 'Josefina has been bringing him here every weekend you've been away.' They could see that the car which had overtaken them was now parked in front of the cabin, a luxuriously large building with a delightful verandah stretching across its frontage. The sound of a 'cello, sweet to Illya's ears, could just be heard as they approached, Napoleon bringing up the rear and parking the car, before mysteriously disappearing down the hill towards the lake. Marina gathered the children round her as Tess sank gratefully onto a long sofa on the verandah, the girls helping her to force the twins into their clothes, as Illya slipped noiselessly inside.

Pablo's body was characteristically sloped over the instrument as he played, Misha accompanying him on the piano. Brian Pearson stood just behind him, his hand placed lovingly on his partner's shoulder. Illya stood by the door until the piece was finished and Pablo looked up, an expression of joy filling his face as he put down the instrument as quickly as he could and stood up.

'Papa!' He ran towards Illya and buried himself into the Russian's chest, Illya trying hard not to cringe with pain too obviously for the second time in the last few minutes as the boy embraced him. Misha stood up too, coming over to Illya and kissing him in the Russian fashion, before looking him up and down critically.

'What is this, Illya Nikovetch?' he said playfully, touching Illya's hair. 'Trying to ape your brother?' Illya assumed a pained expression as Pablo released him.

'I was forced into it by my sister in law's doing' he said, not succeeding in keeping a smile from his face, 'but I have two weeks holiday during which time I am hoping it will grow to a more acceptable length.'

He looked round the room, which seemed immense, a huge fireplace dominating the space, and the piano, a baby grand, placed strategically in front of an immense panoramic window looking out onto the lake.

'Did you have this checked out?' he said with an arched look, glancing round. Misha raised his eyebrows.

'Yes, Illyusha. Your brother in law and his partner have been guarding us very effectively since you two disappeared on your mission. Now, far more importantly, where is my lovely sister-in-law, and where is my new neice?'

xxxxxxxxxx

The evening sun was in its final gasp over the lake as Napoleon plonked himself down on the sofa outside, a feeling of utter happiness flooding his soul despite the events of the last hours. After he had parked the car he had left the others to themselves and followed a hunch of his that his own family would be nearby. He found them on the beach, the two of them standing facing the lake and skimming pebbles across the water. His wife looked as she always did; the essence of elegance, a cream coloured sweater over some elegant navy capri pants, whilst Fabian frolicked in the wavelets at the edge of the lake, his thick curly hair blown about by the breeze. He looked up suddenly and then, dropping the stone he was preparing to throw, sprinted back up the beach shouting 'daddy!' the sound echoing off the far distant hills as he ran towards his father.

He saw Jo turn round and smile, before slowly following their son towards him. They walked up as far as the cabin, before sitting down on the sofa, Fabian barging his way into the house, where they could hear a chorus of voices greeting him. Jo looked at him, before tracing her hand down his arm.

'Was it bad, this time?' He gazed at her and shrugged.

'If you mean this, then not really. There were worse things' he said, gazing at the lake. 'What about you?' She smiled again, her face uncannily relaxed as she nestled into his side a little.

'It's been an interesting time' she began, 'revealing even. But I expect you know that if you've been back to the office.' He nodded, thinking of Darryl and others who had made their true feelings about him and Illya apparent after the scene at UNCLE HQ, much to their evident chagrin on Solo and Kuryakin's return.

'I don't mean that' he interrupted, fixing her with a prolonged but gentle stare. She maintained his gaze, before saying, 'the twins have worn us out. They are the worst combination of your partner and my sister that they could ever have contrived to create. When I have the next examination, just pray that there is only one baby there and that it has at least the calmer traits of both sides of our families.' He continued to stare at her, before a grin spread slowly across his face. After giving her an immense hug, he sprung up from the sofa and headed inside as quickly as his son had just done, Jo laughing gently at the loud cheer that emanated from inside the cabin after a few moments, before Marina and Peter and Brian and Misha burst out again, smiling at her fondly before getting into Brian's car and heading off towards town.

Jo wondered on many occasions afterwards what might have happened if she had joined Napoleon at that moment. Then she would not have seen the two men arrive at the deck, their black uniforms just unusual enough to be noticeable in the gathering gloom of the evening. She had stood up, the binoculars casually slung onto the floor by the sofa hastily caught up and trained onto the men long enough to tell her that they had come for something more serious than a harmless fishing trip. Leaping up, she had run into the cabin, forcing herself to explain calmly and accurately what was happening at the lake.

The response from both Illya and Napoleon had been instant. Withdrawing guns from places she had never noticed them to be, they both calmly ushered Tess, Jo and the children up the open staircase towards the rooms which were on a mezzanine area overlooking the room and where the children, apart from Sabi, had beds in two adjoining rooms.

In all the excitement Illya had not enquired as to the whereabouts of Vaz and Fernando. It was too late now; he shrugged and then, turning off the lights, headed for the kitchen area at the back of the cabin, Napoleon remaining behind a sofa near to the front door. An eerie silence immediately enveloped them; only the crackling of the fire could be heard, its flames casting weird shadows across the room after Illya had hastily shoved a fireguard in front of it before he disappeared. Napoleon's arm was working reasonably well, the wound almost healed, but he frowned at the state of his partner, whose arm was encased in a light plaster cast, hindering him from being as effectively deadly as he usually was. He prayed that whatever way they entered the building it would not be through any of the upstairs rooms.

Illya crouched down in the darkest part of the kitchen, his back thrust against the wall at the side of the large range cooker, his eyes trained on the door and windows facing it. He had discarded his sling as he reached his position, not wanting to restrict his movements even more, but he estimated his chances of success in any fight as pretty low, knowing the capabilities of Hoang's guards as he did. He slid the safety catch of his gun back, resting it for a moment on his knees as he waited. Jo had alerted them to the two guards, but there was no knowing whether more could be lurking, though he doubted it. Thinking of them reminded him of cases he had read about where Japanese soldiers had been found in remote jungle areas years after peace had been declared, not knowing it, their war still being waged until someone told them different. These guards had obviously been dispatched before Hoang's death, their mission now futile, but still deadly to their intended victims.

His ears strained to hear any unusual sound until an incredibly bright light trained in his direction suddenly temporarily blinded him. He stood up, his eyes focusing on a figure in the doorway which he aimed for.

'Illya stop.' Illya's finger relaxed on the trigger as the light disappeared and the kitchen light came on. Napoleon stood in the doorway, a guard behind him, the look on his face alerting his partner to something serious. He stood up and followed them back into the living room.

His beautiful twin boys lay inert on the sofa. For a moment the very worst nightmare seemed to be unfolding before his eyes before Napoleon signalled otherwise.

'They're drugged' he managed, before the guard standing next to him, the number 32 tattooed on his hand, unleashed a savage blow onto his arm, causing him to cry out with the pain of it. Illya stared at the children before turning and gazing at the other guard.

'Take these to the car and then go upstairs and tell 12 to bring the other ones' he said mechanically, the orders sounding like a reference to objects rather than Illya and Napoleon's most treasured children.

'Stop' he said, stepping between the guard and the boys. 'You don't understand.' For a second, Napoleon was sure that the guard would kill his partner. He had unholstered his gun and Napoleon could see that the safety catch was off. He brought it up towards the Russian and then, after a few seconds, he heard the click of the catch again. 'Your orders, they are . . . . not required anymore.' Both guards exchanged looks before the guard who was numbered 27 spoke.

'Explain' he said, calmly staring at Illya. Illya, who had gambled on the men being recruits who had not been given the drug _Somatex_, looked up, something he had seen beyond the two guards apparently giving him inspiration, or so it appeared to Napoleon.

'Your leader, Clark Hoang, is dead' Illya continued. 'His operation has been wound up by UNCLE and your remaining colleagues have been moved to a secure place for, _retraining_' he added, glancing at Napoleon, who seemed to have recovered from the blow and was standing next to the other guard. Holstering his gun, but reaching behind for some other weapon, the guard frowned slightly, as Illya edged a little towards the sleeping twins.

'And what proof can you possibly offer of that fact?' Illya pushed up his sleeve slightly and taking hold of the plaster on his hand, ripped it off. The number 3 tattoo stood out clearly on the pale skin, as both guards stared at it and then at him.

'3' the guard 27 said calmly. 'We were told you were to be terminated with Miss Day.'

'I survived' Illya said, growing more confident, 'my wife survived, but Hoang did not. Now give up your weapons and call off whoever is upstairs. It's all over.' The two guards gazed at each other silently for a moment, before finally, there was an ominous click from the other guard's gun just at the moment Illya stared into 27's eyes and saw the tell-tale blankness dwelling there.

There was a sudden explosion of glass breaking and a low thud as a silenced bullet brought down the guard facing Illya, but not before he had lunged forward, bringing the Russian down by the side of his children. Instantly, Napoleon threw himself sideways onto the other guard, as his gun discharged loudly, the bullet harmlessly embedding itself into the beam above them. From upstairs, he could hear the sound of fighting, before a figure loomed over him, and with a ruthless crack he saw Fernando chop the back of the guard's neck until he lay doll-like over Napoleon's legs. Fernando raced upstairs as Napoleon stumbled to his feet and reached Illya, who was slumped over the top of the children, blood pouring from his hand.

Grabbing a towel which had been fortuitously thrown on the back of the sofa, Napoleon wrapped Illya's hand, noting with a certain amount of irony that the guard's knife had pierced the skin cleanly through the tattoo. Kuryakin stirred a little as he worked.

'Lie still, he stuck you in the hand; a Bullseye on your little number there.' Illya groaned a little and then mumbled something incoherent.

'They're alright' Napoleon said, not sure at all but bargaining on the fact that Vaz had dealt successfully with whoever was upstairs. After a few minutes Illya sat up shakily, before looking across at the still sleeping boys by his side.

'Well at least they don't seem to have to have witnessed anything' he said, fondly reaching out towards Valya's sleeping head, his hair, almost white now with the summer sun, splayed out on the sofa.

'Yes, they look really quite cute like that' Napoleon added, looking at Illya. 'It's amazing how deceptive a sleeping person can be.' Illya gave him a rather gentler glare than normal before craning his head round as the other two agents came downstairs.

'Those chaps that should be alive are alive, and the chap that shouldn't, isn't' Vaz said in his usual incomprehensible public schoolboy accent, plonking himself down in a chair and putting his feet on the coffee table.

'The girls are putting the children to bed' Fernando added more sensibly. They said that the guard must have got upstairs before and was waiting for them, complete with darts for the children. So hopefully, they'll sleep it off by tomorrow.' As if on cue, Josefina and Therese came downstairs, Tess carrying the baby in a wicker carrycot. They put her on the coffee table, all of them gathering round except Illya, who had laid back on the sofa, eyes closed. Therese suddenly looked round, her pale demeanour worsening at the sight of the two guards and her husband's hand, now leaking blood again through the towel.

'There's a large first aid box in the kitchen' Jo said helpfully, getting up. 'Napoleon make some coffee while Nando and Vaz clear up the unwelcome visitors' she continued, pulling Napoleon up and taking him off while Tess sat with Illya slumped against her.

The wound, when Marina inspected it later that evening, turned out to be less serious than they had imagined, though she was unhappy at the thought of her son's refusal to seek any further medical help until his holiday was over. He lay on the sofa while she worked, his head on Tess's lap, while Fernando and Vaz stepped outside with Napoleon.

'We saw two of them last week' Fernando began, staring into the distance. 'They looked very like any casual tourists round here at first, but after a while, there was a sort of pattern to their visits which set off a few alarm bells. Vaz did a rekky in the woods to the west side of the lake and found their camp. We've been watching them ever since. We made a big show of leaving when we knew you were coming, and we've been doing our own spot of camping out ever since.' Vaz, who was standing looking at the blackness of the lake as well, turned round and leaned against one of the posts supporting the verandah.

'We thought they'd make their move soon, and when Kuryakin's ma and pa went out with Misha and Bri, we guessed they'd think it was the most opportune time. I hid in the roofspace just above the hallway this afternoon, where it was easy to just swing down when I judged they were on the point of doing something serious.'

'And how did you judge that?' Napoleon asked, looking between them. They smiled at each other, reminding Napoleon wistfully of the relationship he and Illya had begun at their age.

'Sorry old chap, but we bugged the place. We had a horrible feeling at one point that Illya would start nosing round and discover them all, but he doesn't quite seem the ticket at the moment, or so we thought.' Napoleon smiled at their assessment.

'Well you can put it down to loss of blood and the fact that he's just had a baby' he said, his heart racing slightly at the memory of Jo's news before he re-focused his thoughts on the two younger men.

'We were party to the goings on upstairs and down' Fernando said, but I knew Illya was playing for time when he saw me outside. It was enough for me to cue Vaz in, and the rest you know.' He got up suddenly at the sound of a car, the unmistakeable sound of Tess' old car coming up the drive. The beetle swung round across the front of the building and Frankie Portelli leapt out, Fernando running down the wooden steps and embracing her, before the two of them walked away into the darkness.

'He knew she was coming, but he warned her not to come too early' Vaz said. Napoleon stared into the darkness for a while as Vaz sat down next to him.

'So those two . . .'

'are engaged, but don't tell Kuryakin as she wants to break it to him herself.'

'Right.' As if on cue, Illya emerged from the cabin, his hand bound with a seriously professional bandage to add to the cast on the same arm. Vaz got up and went down the steps, yawning.

'I'm just going to gather up our camping stuff, so I'll leave you two old chaps to chew the cud together' he said, a faint smirk on his dark face, as he disappeared into the woods at the side of the cabin.

Illya plonked himself down with a sigh as Napoleon shifted round to be able to see him more clearly.

'OK?'

'I suppose so. My mother has bandaged me up like an Egyptian mummy which is the price I have to pay for not being carted off to the hospital I imagine' he moaned, squinting slightly at the figures he could just see in the distance.

'Illya, we need to talk in the morning'. Illya turned towards his partner, for the first time, feeling able to simply relax with the person who was probably closest to understanding him in the world, beyond even his wife and mother he sometimes thought.

'If it's about next year, then let's talk about it now. We all need to enjoy this holiday, Napoleon' Illya said seriously, still trying to work out who exactly it was down by the beach.

'OK. And by the way it's Fernando and Frankie, so can we concentrate on our lives now?' Illya smiled and nodded, before looking at his partner again more seriously.

'I have to . . . take a break from all this, Napoleon. What has happened, we need to have some time as a family now, without my job getting in the way.' He realised he was making little sense. He pursed his lips and began again; sure that Napoleon knew the facts, only needed him to explain the reasons.

'I haven't resigned from UNCLE, I'm just taking leave of absence for a year. After that, well, we'll see' he said quietly. 'I've been offered a research post in the Physics Department at NYU; I'll be starting in October.' He hesitated, waiting for any response from his partner, but Napoleon's calm silence encouraged him to continue. 'I know it's very soon, but the post became vacant, Waverly agreed to it and it'll allow me to, well, finish one thing and start another.'

Napoleon, who knew about Kuryakin's plans from his talk with Waverly earlier that day, frowned.

'I'm sorry, I'm a bit beyond riddles' he said, sounding as kind as he could. Illya bit his lip slightly, before beginning again.

'If you think I was rash to come to that deal with Funk, believe me Napoleon, I had to. Tess nearly died, there was so much blood … ' He characteristically ran his hand through his hair as he leant forward, the memory flooding back as he talked. 'However, he did save her, and it was without having to perform a hysterectomy.'

'Which is good for her . . .'

'But leaves me with a decision to make, particularly since Dr Francis' revelations' Illya replied with a slight grin.

'So that is the thing you need to finish, I presume.' Illya nodded. 'I don't really have a choice. Unless I take a vow of celibacy for the next twenty years, I have to make sure that this can never happen again. Besides, I think we've proved ourselves to be a good Catholic family in that regard; six children seems like a good number.' He sighed deeply and sat back, the trauma of the last hours suddenly washing through him like an engulfing wave.

'OK, I understand the finishing, so what's with the starting?' Napoleon pressed, seeing the tell-tale signs of exhaustion creeping over his partner, but not wanting the moment to end inconclusively between them. Illya remained in a semi-recumbent position on the sofa, his eyes almost closed.

'I'm going to convert, Napoleon.' Napoleon's lips curled slightly as he watched his partner, for a moment having no idea what he meant.

'Sorry, Illya, you're going to . . .'

'Convert. To Catholicism, Napoleon. You know, that place at the end of our road you occasionally darken the doors of.' Napoleon turned from him slightly and looked out over towards the darkness, the two of them listening to the steady ebb and flow of the lake on the beach.

'Why?' Napoleon asked eventually, not moving from the now comfortable positions they had both assumed.

'For only one reason' Kuryakin replied. 'Because I believe it to be true. I haven't had a conversion experience or any such sudden enlightenment believe me; in fact I've done everything I could not to take this step.' He sat up suddenly, turning towards his partner, a look of relief washing across his tired face. 'When we lay on that bridge and it looked so, well, hopeless, I realised then that everything, all my life had been leading to this moment, and that whatever happened afterwards, I had to acknowledge it. I've spent a lifetime studying things, Napoleon, and I thought that if I studied this religion I would exorcise it, put it on a shelf with the other subjects I've ticked in my list. But unlike them it took hold of another part of me, and on that bridge I realised that I couldn't pretend any longer.' There was a silence between them, Napoleon aware that the Russian looked suddenly tense.

'What's wrong?' Napoleon murmured. 'Afraid it might come between us?'

'A little. Yes.' Napoleon smiled a little ruefully.

'You don't need to. I've been expecting it, just forgot that you'd have to take the long route via the collected works of St Thomas Aquinas, St Augustine and every Papal encyclical for the last two hundred years, comrade.'

'Being a Catholic doesn't mean you have to leave your intellect behind' Illya replied a little huffily before he noticed his partner's expression and smiled.

They returned to their former positions, their breathing slowing almost simultaneously as the rippling sound of the lake washed over them in the darkness.

xxxxxxxxx

The sun seemed low in the sky from the position he lay in, its warmth penetrating his exposed skin, including even his closed eyelids just enough to make him feel utterly at ease with his surroundings. He could hear from nearby the sounds of enthusiastic splashing, identifying the different voices, young and older of the people he most cared about in the world, all brought together in this place at this time. Much nearer than that, a snuffling sound threatening to develop into something far less pleasant forced him to open his eyes.

'_Ah, Sabi, tu as faim, herrison_?' The baby, nicknamed 'hedgehog' by her father after her amazingly thick baby hair, stared back, her diminutive lips smacking together in answer to his question. Illya sat up and blinked rapidly, before reaching into the basket and gently lifting out his baby girl. He could not tell yet what hue her eyes might finally become, but in every other way, his prayer had been granted; she was indeed a near replica of his beloved Tess.

He felt her slide into place next to him, the flat curls of her hair swinging onto his shoulders and her skin giving off outdoor fragrances of sea and salt and pine woods as she reached across and he passed the baby between them. Therese smiled and pulled down her swimming costume, the baby latching on with a kind of delighted abandon that her father understood very well, her tiny hands steadying herself on the breast as she sucked. Illya leaned back and pulled an assortment of large cushions behind his wife, before leaning back again and surveying the scene.

The boys, all five of them, were engaged in building a sandcastle of monolithic dimensions, orchestrated by Napoleon and Fernando, a kind of primitive water filling line by means of buckets established from the sand to the sea in order to fill the moat. Illya watched his partner's patient attempts at restraining the twins, who, predictably to their father, had not grasped the fine points of architecture and were now running round the moat at full speed, much to the fury of their sister.

'Wait for it . . .' he murmured almost to himself, as with a tremendous shove Valya pushed Misha, the slighter twin falling headlong into one of the curtain walls surrounding the castle.

Thunderous feet, accompanied by shouts of 'Papa papa' heralded the arrival of Tasiya, who fell headlong into her father, tears flowing.

'Tasiya, calm down, what is it?' Illya enquired, watching Fernando swing the twins onto his shoulders and set off down the beach with them, Fabian running behind.

'Papa, come! Those boys are spoiling Unca Poly's castle!' she blarted through her tears, her legs drumming onto his as she grabbed him round the neck. He put his good arm round her comfortingly and pulled her round a bit, as her breathing slowed and she began to gaze at her baby sister. After a while, she looked up at him, her purple eyes huge. 'Papa, do you still love me now that I'm big and we have a new girl?' she said, a serious expression making her frown. Illya sighed and stroked the flaming hair back from her face.

'I will always love you Tasiya, even when you're a very big grown up girl' Illya said, as she nuzzled him before with a mighty leap and a quick glance at the baby, she rushed back to the reconstruction of the wall now being attempted by Marv and Pablo.

Therese put the now replete baby back in her basket and pushed Illya onto his back.

'Happy?' she said, stroking his hair back from his face.

'Mm' he replied; 'I will be in a few weeks' time.' She leaned over him, her breasts rubbing his chest delightfully as he caught hold of her.

'Sure?' she said, her eyes questioning his as he gazed happily upwards.

'Sure' he said.


End file.
